Honeysuckle Rose
by mmmh-Hot-Sauce
Summary: Takes place in New York City, 1944. Tara's father passes away unexpectedly and she suspects foul play. Distraught, she contacts a private detective to investigate.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

…earlier today, Secretary Stimson announced that a reshuffling of Army personnel will place five to six million fighting men overseas by the end of the year. Furthermore many of the officers over 38 will be placed on the inactive list … and finally, it is with a heavy heart that I say, New York City is shining a bit dimmer today as one of our stars fade away. All of the Big Apple is buzzing at the news that James Michael Maclay, famed owner of 'Le Beau Cosmetic Company' which was founded right here in New York City was found dead in his home by his eldest child, the glamourous Tara-Rose Maclay. Mr. Maclay is believed to have succumbed to a heart attack early Friday morning. The deceased was husband to the late Margarete Rose Maclay, who passed away due to complications during childbirth in 1926 following the birth of their youngest child. Mr. Maclay is survived by daughter, Tara-Rose, and son, Donald. This morning, the beloved Mr. Maclay will be laid to rest next to his wife at Green-Wood Cemetery. Tara-Rose Maclay is slated to take full control over her father's business, LBCC and the entire family estate. She has some big shoes to fill but New York has every confidence in this little lady. This is truly a sad day in our great city.

This is Daniel Osbourne signing off. I leave you know with Duke Ellington and John Coltrane's "In a Sentimental Mood".

WPOV

I was tempted to turn off my Victrola radio as I stood in my small studio apartment in my undershirt and slacks, slowly pouring myself another glass of bourbon on the rocks. The news on the war had been bleak and I didn't really give a crap about some dead blueblood and his family's so called problems. Unfortunately, it was my job to know what was happening with New York City social set; sometimes they came to me to solve their rich blueblood problems, and hell, they paid _damn well_. Automatically, I filed the names away in the drawer of my mind reserved for useless bullshit I'd probably never need. I sat down at my desk, unfolded my copy of the New York Times and eagerly spread it out in front of me. I quickly found the sports pages and began studying the baseball section intently as I tossed a tumbler of Wild Turkey with a practiced flick of the wrist. The ring of the telephone prevented me from reaching my goal; finding the score of the Yankees game would have to wait.

I reached over lazily and picked up the receiver, "Rosenberg," I say just as lazily, once the black plastic met my ear.

"Is this Rosenberg Investigations?" a husky feminine voice asked.

"Yeah, that's right girlie," I drawl out as I chuck the newspaper onto my desk.

"I'd like to speak with Mr. Ira Rosenberg, please."

"You and me both, kid." I replied as my brows drew together in suspicion. "But you're about two years too late. The old man went belly-up on a job a long while back."

"Oh," her voice held a distinct note of disappointment. "Are you his receptionist?"

"You could say that," I keep my words short and precise, not keen on giving away too much.

"I would like to speak with the Detective in charge then," she demanded, her tone verging on annoyance.

"You're speaking with 'em," I replied back snidely. "The name's Red."

"Red?" she asked dubiously. "Well, are you taking new cases, Mr. Red?" she inquired, obviously unaware of my proper title.

I had to smirk at that. A broad in this line of work was rare but not unheard of. Take Jeanie Halliday or Miss Marple for starters. We were few and far between, the lot of us. So when a Jane or Jobbie called for service, they were always in for a surprise when they caught sight of my mug.

I chuckled softly into the receiver at what I imagined this dame's reaction would be upon meeting; only stopping when she spoke again. "Well, are you?"

At her words, I purse my lips together in thought and relax back in my chair. "Could be," I allowed nonchalantly as I leaned back and propped my sock clad feet up on the desk. "Depends on the case. As a general rule, I don't decide to take a case until I've met the client," I answered, grateful again I had made that personal policy. _Anything could be a set up, you can't trust anybody_.

I heard her sigh. "Perhaps if you knew with whom you were speaking with, you might reconsider," she returned.

_Well La-di-dah!_ "Look doll, I don't care if you're Veronica fucking Lake, no dice. We meet first. Why not come to my office? That's usually how this works," I offered. My eyes darted around the room and noted the several pairs of shorts and socks hanging up to dry only ten feet away from my desk.

"No thank you," she retorted and I sighed with relief that I wouldn't have to hurry and make the place presentable. "Can we meet somewhere in public?" she asked.

I shrugged, "sure, why not. Any place in particular?"

"Furest Bros Restaurant, in an hour."

"I'll be there, doll." I said; I knew the place fairly well. It was in the Jewish section of New York's lower east side. "And, just for the sake of propriety, with whom am I meeting?" I asked with a sarcastic smirk, my voice heavily laced with mockery.

"Tara-rose Maclay," she answered flatly and then hung up.

_Oh. _It was my turn to be shocked.

I put the receiver down, scratched the back of my head and then snatched up my pack of Lucky Strikes, pulling one out gingerly from the pack and bringing it slowly to my lips. From the pocket of my slacks, I took out my silver Zippo lighter that once belonged to my grandfather and flicked it open with a snap of my fingers. I took a long, luxurious draw as I lit the cigarette and pulled open that creaky drawer in my head reserved for bullshit that I apparently needed after all.

Tara-Rose Maclay. Of course I've heard of her, long before today's news. You can't grow up in this town and not know about the Maclay's. The radio had said that she stood to inherit the entire estate and her father's cosmetic company. _Lucky broad_. But why would she be calling me … or my dead pops to be more accurate? _For Christ's sake, Rosenberg, why do they always call?_ I chuckled blackly to myself. _Because they're usually guilty._

I stood and went in search of a clean shirt to put on. As I was putting my cuff links in; the ones I found in a drawer in my father's desk while cleaning it out after his death, I remembered another snippet of useless bullshit. This dame was supposed to be beautiful, absolutely stunning, the toast of the town at one time. I cringed. Beautiful broads were trouble.

Nothing but trouble. The kind of trouble and the kind of dame that get a fella nothin' but a black eye and a broken heart. Or in my father's case, two slugs to the chest. Yeah, broads like them; they were to be strictly avoided at all costs.

After I made sure my Colt .32 revolver was loaded and secured in my holster, I deftly knotted my black tie around my neck and shrugged into my weathered gray double breasted suit jacket. Carelessly, I tossed my jet black fedora hat on my uncombed head and walked out the door for my rendezvous with New York's sweetheart.

Thirty-five minutes later, I got out of the cab on the corner of Orchard St. and Stanton and squinted up at the red neon sign of Fuerst Bros Restaurant that buzzed above me with an electric hum. Nothing had changed since the last time I was here. A decade ago I lived on this side of the city and Fuerst's was where my pop and I stopped every morning to get a cup of joe before he hit the streets. After being gone for so long, I'm not surprised that I don't recognize any of the faces in the joint; but I saw the same cheap red vinyl chairs, the tabletops that were scuffed and carved from years of servitude and the same bell over the door announcing my entrance.

Not seeing anyone that looked like a blonde heiress Betty Gable type either, I got a table in the back and ordered a coffee and a slice of apple pie from the diminutive strawberry-blonde haired woman that came to wait on me. I could hear the cook's radio playing the Andrew Sister's "In the Mood," mingled with the satisfying sizzle of bacon frying on the grill.

"Ma'am," I called to the waitress just as she turned to leave, "forget the pie, steak and eggs over easy instead." _Heck, I haven't been a practicing Jew in years_, "with a side of bacon." It just smelled too damn good. She nodded and headed towards the kitchen.

I took off my hat and ran my fingers through my unruly hair, feebly trying to push back the messy red mop, before lighting a smoke. _Wonder what makes her think there's more going on? The radio said heart attack_, I mused, my thoughts falling back to the Maclay case. I took a long deliberate pull on my cigarette and exhaled a cloud of smoke into the air as I eyed the waitress walking towards me with my coffee.

"Cream?" she asked as she held up a small jar of the milky substance. I shook my head no and she left me to myself. Reaching inside of my suit, I pulled out my little silver flask and quickly topped off my cup. As I brought the cup to my lips, my eyes went to the door of the diner where a customer was walking in, making the little bell that hung over the door ring insistently.

I nearly choked on my coffee as my eyes drank in the sight of what I could only assume was doll-face herself. _I mean, who wouldn't. And you're a damn liar if you say otherwise_. Regardless, I couldn't have helped it if I wanted to. Her presence demanded a reaction. Her golden wavy hair framed her porcelain face like a gilt frame around a priceless painting. Her eyes were brilliant sapphires as they searched the faces of the patrons in the diner, searching for me, I assumed. Rosy cheeks perfectly complimented by luscious red lips that you just want to have on you … _Anywhere_.

I stood up slowly, honestly in awe of her, and her eyes flew to me. I shot a closed lip smile at her to show her that I was who she was looking for. I caught the look of shock that briefly washed over her magnificent features as she took in the sight of me; a thin framed, shaggy haired detective and a female to boot, before her demeanor returned to its normal regal pose. Her chin tilted up ever so slightly as she started towards me. _Saunter_ was the only way to describe it; there was no way what she was doing could be called _walking_. Every man in the room, and even some women, felt the searing burn of her smoldering sensuality.

The creamy white fabric of her dress trimmed with red roses swayed seductively around her calves as she came towards me. I caught a glimpse of a set of long, muscular gams that would put a derby winning thoroughbred to shame. Her feet were encased in a tiny pair of red heels and her fingernails were painted fuck-me-red to match. I was pretty sure Le Beau didn't have a color called that, but they _needed _to, and call it Tara-Rose.

"Red Rosenberg?" she purred like a kitten and put out her hand for me to shake. She lowered her lashes until they almost cuddled her cheeks and slowly raised them again, like a theatre curtain. I was to get to know that trick. The one that was supposed to make me roll over on my back with all four paws in the air.

"Tara-Rose Maclay," I said and took her hand, turning it over to kiss the top of it. "It's my pleasure," I murmured and smiled wryly at her.

The radio broadcaster never did this dame justice; she was more beautiful then descried. I sighed internally as I looked deeply into her glistening cobalt eyes. I could feel it. Absolutely nothing but a fistful of trouble right smack in the kisser would come from helping this broad.


	2. Chapter 2

TPOV

I wasn't expecting this petite, slightly unkempt detective to be the best Private Eye in the five boroughs. And I definitely didn't expect the name "Red" to be associated to a woman no less. But Red Rosenberg looked like she was nothing but trouble with a capital T.

Even from a distance she looked cold, hard and dangerous. _And in that gray tailored suit, sexy too. Can't forget that, Tara-Rose._ Those types usually were. Alexander had told me about them, saying that the Rosenberg's were the best in the business. Hard to work with, but the best. And who was I to call someone else difficult anyways? Alexander had heard of Rosenberg Investigations through a few friends and had even met the now deceased Ira Rosenberg at a pool hall a few years back. I wasn't sure at first that I needed to hire a private detective; after all, I spoke to the Police Officers and they said it was an open and shut case. That my father had passed away from a heart attack, end of story. Only I was pretty sure that it _wasn't_ end of story. The more I thought about it over the weekend, the more I realized that I could not rest until I knew, for certain, that there was nothing out of the ordinary with my father's untimely death. One name was on constant loop, repeating itself over and over again in my head these past forty-eight hours, Rosenberg.

"That's the Detective, Red Rosenberg, isn't it, Alexander?" I questioned softly through the glass divider of the car as I watched her walk into the diner, hat on and head low, keeping her face shielded from the wind. I was separated by glass all around me. Separated from where Alexander sat in the front seat of the glossy black Chrysler Imperial by glass. Separated by the glass of the car window and then separated again by the glass pane of the diner from Detective 'Red' Rosenberg. I lived in a glass box with everyone looking in at me, watching my every move, and waiting to see what I would do next. It allowed me to take in others as well, though, and that is what I was doing. I sat watching her, sleuthing the detective. The thought was somewhat amusing to my slightly hysterical mind.

"I do believe that's the Detective, Tara-Rose. I didn't realize it would be a broad though. Hard to tell with a name like 'Red'," he answered somewhat apologetically; resting his arm on the back of his seat and slightly turning to look at me. A few short years ago he would have referred to me as Miss. Maclay or even Miss Tara-Rose. Things changed a lot in a few years, though. We had a thing together, Alexander and me, short lived as it was. Daddy knew and approved of our relationship, if you could even call our one date a relationship. Daddy had always told me that class does not divide us, attitude does. I think that's one of the things that made Daddy such a good businessman; he never looked down his nose at people. I tried hard to do the same and follow in his footsteps. That's why, when Alexander asked me out, I had acquiescent his offer. He took me out, we went dancing, and I learned more from Alexander about the city and the world than I had from nearly anyone else. I also learned through our one kiss shared at the end of the night; that I had no feelings for him, or any man for that matter and he in turn, was very gracious in accepting the fact that the only love I could ever give him was platonic. Alexander and I mutually decided that our relationship worked better as just friends and we remained as such. He stayed on staff and it didn't prove to be uncomfortable. Alexander was a good egg and still one of my very closest confidants. I didn't have many so it made me hold tight to the ones I did have.

"Are you sure you don't want me to join your meeting?" Alexander offered to me as I continued to watch the diner out the back passenger window. I was no longer able to see Miss. Rosenberg. Instead, I watched the pigeons looking for crumbs and the people bustling by, eager to get wherever they were going. I was stalling and I knew it. Alexander's offer to escort me was a tempting one. It would have been so much easier to have Alexander there during my meeting with the Detective. Security and a friend rolled into one. But I knew that this was something that I needed to do alone. I needed to start relying on myself now that Daddy was no longer here to watch over me and protect me. I shook my head in answer to Alexander's question, my hair moving gently around my shoulders with the motion.

Leaning back on the ivory white seat, I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply. The car still smelled of cigars and my father's cologne and it surrounded me, enveloped me. I wondered how long it would stay that way before the smell would completely disappear. _Oh Daddy_. A few small tears made their way to the corners of my eyes and I gently dabbed them dry. My embroidered handkerchief never seemed to leave my hand, although I knew I'd have to toughen up to do what needed to be done. I reached in my purse for the silver compact engraved with the letters MRM. Margarete Rose Maclay. It was one of the few things I've held on to that was my mother's. I flipped the compact open to make sure everything was still in place. Make-up and hair both looked perfect, as was expected from the _now owner_ of Le Beau Cosmetics. Even in my darkest hours, when my world was filled with sadness like I'd never experience, my appearance had to remain perfect. It's what everyone expected of me. I took the powder puff and lightly dabbed on a quick coat of powder to freshen my face. The cold metal warmed quickly, pressed into my hand, and I traced the three letters etched into the silver. I had few memories of Momma, I was so young when she passed. But I remembered her using this compact and it gave me a connection to her that I was otherwise so often lacking.

Sighing and pulling myself together, I moved to pull on my mink sole and get out of the car. Alexander watched me through the rearview mirror and exited the driver's seat. He tipped his hat and swung open my door for me, offering his hand as I stepped out of the car. He looked a bit concerned as his eyes met mine.

"Tara, be careful. Word on the street is that the Detective's a bit of a hothead," he warned as he shut the door behind me.

"So am I, if you remember correctly," I smiled a watery smile up at him. My Patriotic Red lips grazed the side of his ear. I whispered a breathy _thank you_. He smiled back and said, "knock'em dead, kid."

The local greasy spoon was probably the last place Detective Rosenberg would have thought I'd suggest. Daddy and I came here all of the time over the last few years. The people were warm and friendly in a city that could, at times, be anything but. My hands moved to my thighs and smoothed my custom tailored dress down over my legs, pressing out the folds that had come from sitting in the car. Daddy had it made especially for me, with hand painted roses along the skirt. Some might think it was ostentatious to wear something so flashy following his death. I didn't care what they thought. I knew he would smile if he was here with me. I drew a sense of comfort from wearing the dress that my father had made especially for me, his little Tara-Rose. I had worn the standard black frock earlier to the funeral and it felt stifling. This was _me_.

Putting on a neutral face, I walked with purpose across the street and to the diner. Pigeons scattered from the sidewalk in front of the restaurant as my heels clicked on the pavement near them. The bell chimed over my head as the glass door opened and I immediately started searching, giving the illusion that I was searching the familiar setting for an unfamiliar face. I had seen her from a distance but I didn't get the opportunity to really get a good look at her face. I saw her stand up from her spot in the corner booth, my stoic expression dropping for a split second as I took in her animated green eyes and her vibrant red hair tussled in every which direction. Regaining my composure, I hung my stole on the rack near the front door before making my way to the table. Her eyes travel up and down my body and I have to try hard to hold my smirk at bay. That's not to say that my eyes don't take in her stature: slim, lean, and looking like she could take in a few good home-cooked meals. Her hair was in desperate need of a good cut and her face a good moisturizing cream for the bags under her eyes. Her eyes gleamed as they made one more pass along my body and she gave me her best Valentino smile_. I know I'm in mourning, but I can't ignore the tingle I'm feeling. It's been too lon_g …

After we introduced ourselves and she pulled the old "kiss the hand instead of shake it" trick, I moved to sit down on my side of the booth. Before I was able to sit, Anya came over and pulled me into a tight hug, standing on her toes and whispering her condolences up into my ear. Miss. Rosenberg looked on, a mixture of shock and confusion evident on her face. She asked if I would like my usual order and after nodding my confirmation, she patted my hand and walked to the back of the counter to talk to the chef.

I let out the breath I didn't realize I was holding while I slid into the booth across from Miss. Rosenberg. _Showtime, Tara_.

"Miss. Rosenberg, I do appreciate you taking time out of your busy schedule to meet with me. I hope that this isn't too much of an inconvenience for you."

"It's Red, doll-face. None of that 'Miss. Rosenberg' bullshit. Why don't you give me the skinny as to why we are meeting?" Her voice was low and raspy, and she looked at me skeptically as she took a long, slow drag from her cigarette. I started to speak but paused as I saw Anya coming back to the table with my fruit salad, egg white omelet and tea. Balanced on her other arm she has what I can only assume was Red's food, if it could be called that. For such a small woman, Anya had an amazing amount of strength. After depositing the plates in front of us, she grabbed the coffee pot off the burner to top off Red's mug. Red dug into her food immediately, grunting out a quick thanks to Anya. I looked up and smiled my thanks at her and she gave me a look. The look that basically said she was ready to take the Detective on, if she so much as laid a finger on me. The thought was absurd, of course, but comforting.

I turned back to Red, ready to tell her the purpose of our meeting when I saw her tipping a flask towards her coffee. _A boozer?_ I hoped that it wouldn't affect her ability to get the job done, if she acquiesced and took the job. She opened her mouth while chewing her food and said, "From what I've heard, your father's death was pretty standard fare."

My blood boiled. I leaned forward; quite intent on showing her exactly how serious I was about this. "My father's death was not, as you say, _standard fare_. I do not, for a moment, believe that he had a heart attack as the police and coroner suggest. Daddy was healthy! Sure, he had his vices, but don't we all?" My eyes flickered down to the redhead's breakfast selection. Greasy meat and spiked coffee. I took a sip of my herbal tea and ate a bit of my omelet before I continued. "He was not a sick man. He took great pride in being active and taking care of his body. It went along with the whole image as being the Cosmetics King of New York City, but he truly believed in the way of life. Every morning he and Alexander ran together." Her perfectly sculptured brows rose infinitesimally at the mention of Alexander's name. I cut up some more of my food while I briefly decided how much to reveal.

"Our driver and friend," I explained, my face flushed a bit. Rushing ahead, I continued, "and Daddy often golfed on the weekends with his friends at the Country Club."

She mumbled something under her breath that sounded a lot like, "of course, the county club." I could not be certain, as her mouth was full of half masticated beef once again. I took a dainty bite of my fruit and swallowed before opening my mouth to talk again. _Maybe she'd learn by example_?

"Tell me about your father's friends, his habits. Did he enjoy socializing? Who were his closest friends?" She took a big gulp of her spiked coffee and winced a bit.

"He does. He … did. He was friendly with most of the members of the club, the people we'd see at parties. He had a lot of business acquaintances and social acquaintances. My brother, Donald, always poked fun at how many people he knew. It seemed like every time we'd go out somewhere, he knew every single person we passed." I ate some more of my food. I hadn't realize how hungry I was or how I had ignored eating the entire day. There had been too much going on. "As for close friends, he only had a few that he'd considered 'tried and true'. Richard Wilkins. Theodore Smithe. Vincent Astor." The names were all New York royalty, heavy-hitters in the city. If Red was surprised, she didn't show it.

As we sat there, Ella's version of "Satin Doll' floated through the air from the chef's radio in the back of the kitchen. The song seemingly too cheerful for the conversation we were having. I leaned forward again, pushing my plate out of the way so that I could get as close to her as I could without joining the redhead on her side of the booth. I reached my hand across the table and gently picked up her hand, running my fingernail lightly across the top. She watched my finger making soft circles on her hand and it almost looked like she mouthed the words "_fuck me_." Certainly, even _she_ wouldn't say something so crass in front of a lady. I realized then and there that it was time to turn on the charm.

"Red," I murmured the Detectives chosen name and I saw her go slack-jawed. "Something doesn't add up with my father's death. It does not make any sense and I truly believe that there is something more to this. That's where you come in, should you decide that my case is worthy of your time. And I sincerely hope you decide to take me on," I said, breathlessly, as I lowered my eyes and pursed my lips, "because I am more than willing to take _you_ on. Whatever the price, I can tell that you are worth it." She had actually given me no indication whatsoever of either the price or her worth during our meeting. But, I figured that a little ego stroking never hurt anyone. I wanted her – no I _needed_ her – to take this case; Daddy deserved the best, and Alexander said the Rosenberg's were the best. "Would you consider coming to my house? Looking around? Maybe there are some clues floating right in front of my face that I'm not noticing?" I could tell from her expression that I nearly had her. I quickly got up and moved my body around from my side of the booth to hers, sidling up right beside her. I circled my nails on her forearm. "_Please, Red_?"

She grabbed my hand with hers, effectively stopping me in my tracks. She leaned into my ear and to an outsider, I'm sure we appeared quite cozy. The growl in my ear told me otherwise. "I'm not easily played, dame. And you might want to take note of that. I will help you out and take on the case. But knock it off with the act. I ain't buying what you're selling, you see?"

To say I was slightly disappointed by her rebuff was an understatement. I nodded my head and pulled out my purse, leaving bills on the table covering our tab and a hefty tip for my sweet friend, Anya.

"Whaddya say we blow this Popsicle stand and head to your estate?" she asked, as we both rose from the booth. She grabbed her hat and tipped it forward, covering the mess of auburn hair. I almost missed seeing the vibrant shock of red and had the overwhelming urge to run my fingers through it.

"Walk this way."

From the way she had watched me walk into the room, I had to believe she'd be watching me walk out just as closely. At least now she had a reason.


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

TPOV

With a gentle sway of the hips, which pushed my skirt to and fro, I led Red towards the front of the diner. I glanced over my shoulder and saw that, while she might have _said_ she was immune to my feminine charm, she wasn't completely able to ignore what was before her. Her eyes were focused on my hips and I almost had the moxie to ask if she liked what she saw. _Almost_. I didn't want to press my luck; I knew when to turn it off just as well as I knew when to turn it on. Pausing briefly by the door, I removed my cream stole from the coat rack and started to put it on. Strong hands clamped down on my shoulders and I briefly startled until I realized it was her. She was suddenly right behind me, moving closer to assist me with my stole.

"Aren't you nervous someone would walk off with your mink?" she questioned, her body pressed close against mine to allow a man in an ash gray seersucker suit and his child to pass us. I lifted my hair off of my shoulders while she helped me put the stole on. I could swear her nose grazed my hair but the movement was so quick, it could have been my mind playing tricks on me. My mind wasn't exactly in a right state since I had found Daddy's body on Friday.

I shrugged. "I've learned to go with the assumption that people are inherently good, unless they prove to be otherwise." We walked out the glass door together and I waved goodbye to Anya and the other regulars at Fuerst's. Anya gave me one last parting look, telling me with her eyes that I had better be careful with the company I kept. _Duly noted, Anya, but she's one of the good guys. I think_. I turned my attention back to the Detective standing next to me. "If someone felt the need to steal it, they probably need it more than I do. _Things_ can be replaced, Red. People cannot."

Her fedora covered her simmering green eyes and I found it a bit disconcerting that I couldn't see her reaction to my statement. Her eyes, the color of dark jade, were quite expressive, and quite communicative. It was probably why she felt the need to hide them so often under the brim of her hat; she knew that they were her tells. With a perfectly polished fingernail, I pointed to the car sitting across the street. Alexander was lounging in the front seat, reading a paper and waiting my return. We crossed the street and he quickly got out of the car to open the door to the cab.

"Miss. Maclay, Miss. Rosenberg, I expect your meeting was a pleasant one?" Alexander asked as he pulled open the back passenger door. His eyes searched mine out to make sure that everything was, indeed, on the up and up. He was not surprised by Red's presence, making me think that he had been watching the diner a bit more than reading the paper now discarded on the front seat. It also did not escape my notice that he referred to me as Miss Maclay in front of the Detective and I was grateful. Given her profession, Red would be quick to pick up on little things like that and I didn't feel it was any of her business what happened … or more accurately, didn't happen in the past between Alexander and me.

"Yes, Alexander. It was well, thank you." I took his hand as I turned to sit in the car. Sliding over on the bench seat, Red climbed into the car next to me. Red looked a bit like a fish out of water, shifting in her seat and not sure exactly where to put her arms. I then realized that this might be her first ride in a car like this one. Not wanting to make the situation awkward, I didn't ask if it was her first limousine ride but went with the assumption that it was. Alexander returned to his spot in the front and I slid the window divider open so we could converse with him.

"Hey, pal. First ride in a limo? She's a beaut, isn't she?" _Leave it to Alexander to point out what I was trying to tactfully avoid_. However, Red looked a bit more at ease and she began to converse with Alexander as the car glided smoothly along the paved city streets. The two spoke through the window in the partition and I sat, half listening, mostly watching. Red was slouched back on the seat, chatting amiably with Alexander. I saw her move to slide her pack of cigarettes from her jacket pocket. I grabbed her hand and she looked at me with what I imagine would have been surprise if I could actually see her damn eyes. Slowly, she pulled her hand from mine.

"Detective, would you mind removing your hat?" I felt a bit silly asking but I couldn't stop the words from flying out of my mouth. It was torturous not to know what was going on underneath the brim of that fedora.

"Why?" she asked, running her fingertips along the brim, but not acquiescing to my somewhat crazy demand.

"It hides your eyes. Daddy always told me that you can tell someone's true intentions by their eyes. It's the windows to their soul. I'm sorry if I am making you uncomfortable."

She tilted her hat up with the tip of her index finger and looked me in the eye, "What else did Daddy tell you?"

This caught me off guard. I thought for a moment, desperate to come up with something my father had once said to me that would lighten the mood. But somehow, telling this strange woman that my father believed that 'Once in your life, every person is entitled to fall madly in love with a gorgeous redhead' just didn't seem appropriate. "Not to eat yellow snow," I offered up with a wicked smile. _Actually, I think Donald might have told me that one_.

"I've never heard that one before," she grinned back at me, leaning into the seat and looking a bit more comfortable.

Taking my cue from her, I pushed my back into the seat and demurely crossed my legs while smoothing my skirt around them. "It's a good rule to follow."

She pushed a smoke up from her pack of Lucky Strikes once more and pulled it out with her lips. I sighed and moved to stop her a second time. "Now you're really going to think that I'm a demanding shrew, but would you mind terribly not smoking in the car. It's just that I …"

She took the cigarette from her lips and stared me down, brow furrowed and creases formed on her forehead. "What's wrong precious? I won't catch the mohair on fire."

I decided to give it to her straight. "Listen, this might not make sense to you but it smells like my father in here. His cigars. His cologne. I just ….hope it can stay that way. At least for a little while." I looked down at my hands, which played with the hem of my skirt. My finger traced one of the roses.

I felt her shift closer to me on the seat and her fingers came under my chin, tilting my head up. Looking into my eyes and removing her hand slowly from my chin, she explained, "Just looking for those true intentions, Tare." Her eyes were soft and, in this moment, any trace of the jaded Detective from the diner was gone. I normally hated the nickname 'Tare' but even I couldn't say anything about her use of it.

"Cohibas?" She asked suddenly as she casually returned the smoke back into the pack and placed it back into her coat pocket.

My eyes widened slightly, a bit surprised, although I was quickly learning that nothing she did or said should surprise me. My eyes scanned the seats to look for a discarded wrapper, any indication that could have tipped Red off to the cigar brand besides the smell. The car was immaculate, as usual, thanks to Alexander's diligence. "Yes, those are the ones. How did you know?"

"They were my pops favorite." She nodded knowingly. "They have a very distinct scent, it will linger for years." I smiled at that thought.

"And the cologne?" she asked, running her fingers along the side paneling of the door, glancing out the window as we made our way towards the Hudson River. The estate was about five minutes uptown from where we currently were.

"It's 'Piaf Special 127'. Le Beau, of course. Wouldn't do us very much good if the CEO was wearing someone else's cologne, now would it?"

"I imagine not." Her eyes shifted to the front seat where Alexander was trying very hard to look like he was not listening to every word of our conversation. "Alexander seems very …_ attentive_."

I leaned forward to shut the divider between where we sat from Alexander. Alexander gave me a look in the rearview mirror, which I returned to him as I slid the divider closed. "Yes, like I said earlier, he's been a good friend to our family through the years." Red smirked at me, like she knew there was more to the story than what I was telling her. How would she know that? I didn't ask.

"Anything else you would like to share about Alexander?" she queried.

"No. There is not." I was being short but I wanted the message to come through loud and clear. "He's one of the few people in our lives that has been nothing but loyal. So if you are insinuating that he had something to do with Daddy's death, don't bother. You're barking up the wrong tree." I finished my rant and glared at her. Realizing we were just a block away from the house, I sat up and started to collect my things, busying myself. "Do you have any more questions before we get to the estate?"

"How did it end?"

"How did _what_ end?"

"Your relationship with Alexander." She stated it as though she knew it was a fact.

I was flustered and I'm sure my skin flushed, showing it to the infuriating woman sitting next to me. I couldn't get a read on her and it was frustrating me. I wasn't sure if I wanted to flirt with her or choke her. "A girl's got to keep some things to herself, Miss Rosenberg." I replied cryptically, not wanting to cast light onto the fact that I found the notion of being with Alexander romantically repulsive. Besides, who I did or didn't sleep with was not relevant to this case. "My past relationships are none of your concern. That's not what I hired you for."

"Fair enough, doll. Just know that I never rule anyone out because they had a roll in the hay with my client."

Choke her. Definitely choke her. "I'll remember that," I said through clenched teeth. I watched as Alexander got out of the car and opened the black wrought iron fence that enclosed the estate. I was grateful for the distraction so we could leave the uncomfortable topic behind us. He returned to the car moments later and once again we were moving, rolling slowly into the driveway. Alexander opened the door for us and I exchanged a quick glance with him, silently communicating that we would talk later.

The Georgian style estate loomed over us and Red took in her surroundings, whistling low through her teeth. Still seething from our previous conversation, I started up the pathway headed toward the door, figuring that she would have enough sense to follow behind. The red door stood out starkly from the white house with black shutters and I entered the house, leaving it open behind me so that she could enter as well. The post sat on the table and I riffled through it, looking for anything of interest. She stood in the doorway, the wood framing her body like a picture, and looked around the foyer. "What?" I snapped, setting the mail on the low table in front of the mirror. Catching sight of myself, I fluffed my hair and looked over at her once more. "Are you a vampire? Do you need a formal written invitation? Come in already." As she entered the house, I shook off my shawl and handed it to Buffy, our maid; who hung my stole and took Red's jacket from her to put away in the closet as well.

It didn't appear the Detective was too fazed by the cold shoulder treatment. Instead, she was taking everything in. The staff, the décor, and the hardwood floors – her eyes moved quickly and didn't seem to miss a thing. It looked like she was finally getting down to business.

"Nice pile of bricks. What's its history? Who lives here with you? Who's on staff besides Alexander? I need you to tell me anything and everything that might be pertinent to this case." She pulled a smoke out from her pack and lit it with a quick flash of her lighter.

"Follow me: I'll show you the study. That might be a good place to start." Heels clicking on the wood floor, I made my way up the stairs to the study that held my father's desk and documents. "My father had the house built in 1930; a few years after my mother passed and Le Beau went from being a popular reginal brand to a national success. Our sales went through the roof in 1925 and soon he knew that expansion was imminent. When he was first starting off, we had a small home near the warehouse where Le Beau was based. Once the company started doing well, he bought the office building downtown and had the estate built. It gave Donald and I a good environment to grow up in. Especially since Donald was a toddler and our father was so busy with work; the staff was here to look after us." I opened the door to the cherry wood paneled room and gestured for her to walk inside. "Currently, Donald and I are the only Maclay's living here. But we also have a cook Liam, and Buffy who is our maid. Declan is the butler although he's away this week, left this morning to visit family out of state, and Riley is the groundskeeper. And you are already aware of Alexander."

Setting my purse down on the desk, I moved to the drink cart that sat below the window. "Can I interest you in a drink? Brandy?"

"Yeah, brandy's good," she nodded absently while nosing around the desk, picking up an invitation to the Children's Hospital Gala, and sitting down in the plush chair.

Something about this felt very familiar. Then I realized that it was nearly the exact same conversation my father and I had had in this room on Thursday evening while he looked at the very same invitation to the Children's Hospital Gala.

The epiphany came crashing down on top of me all at once. It was bizarre how the littlest thing, the smallest piece of the puzzle, can finally bring the whole picture together. It wasn't finding him in his silk pajamas on Friday morning that did it. Not the slew of visitors over the weekend mourning his loss or offering their condolences. Nor was it laying him to rest next to my mother.

It was Detective Red Rosenberg, sitting in my father's chair, holding the invitation to the Gala and offering her a drink that did it.

_My father was dead. Dead. _

He was gone and not coming back. I don't think my mind fully grasped that concept until just that point in time. The snifter I was holding crashed to the ground and a sob escaped my mouth before I could press the back of my hand to it. Looking up towards the ceiling, I tried in vain to stop the barrage of tears that were already tumbling down my cheeks.

Frantically, my mind tried to process what was happening and what to do about the situation. Warring emotions pulled me in opposite directions. Part of me wanted to sink to the floor and finally let out the harsh ugly cry that had been building up inside of me for four days. Another part of my brain was screaming at me to find Donald. He was most likely somewhere in the house or on the grounds. Donald had always been very good at helping me manage my emotions. I considered running from the study to my bedroom, just to remove myself from the situation. From the study. From one of the last memories of my father alive.

The very last thing I wanted to do was to look at the woman sitting at my father's desk.


	4. Chapter 4

**Boris Yeltsin**** : Glad you are enjoying the story! Some, not all, of the cast will appear in some way or another throughout the fic.**

CHAPTER 4

WPOV

I looked up from where I was seated at Mr. Maclay's desk when I heard the sound of crystal shattering, and realized doll-face was on the verge of an all-out crying jag.

Luckily for me, my line of work afforded me a lot of experience with bawling hysterical women.

I went to her, enveloping her in my arms. Experience had taught me that all she needed was some reassurance that we would find out the truth, whatever it might be. I'd seen it a hundred times. I'm sure she was no different. I felt her arms wrap around my waist as her sobs shuddered throughout her whole body. I patted her back in a comforting, platonic fashion.

"Don't worry Tara-Rose," I said, using the soft, sincere tone I reserved for times like this. "I'm here to help you, we'll figure it out."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to go to pieces on you. I just haven't wanted to believe that he's gone," she said sadly, her voice trailing off at the end. "Between the funeral arrangements and company business to attend to, I haven't had time to grieve, or even just realize he's really gone," she sniffed. I pulled my handkerchief from my breast pocket and gave it to her. She took it gratefully and daintily dabbed the corners of her eyes while she stared at the floor, looking adorably embarrassed. I put a firm finger under her chin and tilter her face up, forcing her to look me in the eye.

"Don't worry, doll. I've taken you on. Just like you wanted, and I won't let you go, " I assured and flashed a wry grin.

She flushed just a tiny bit, her cheeks coloring just enough to make her live up to her name. Her pupils dilated as her blue eyes widened. In the same instant, I realized how perfectly she fit against me, how her body molded itself to mine like a soft, warm blanket. She smelled like roses too, even though it was February for Christ's sake. I cleared my throat and tore my gaze away from her, releasing her from my embrace, and searched the room for a place to sit down with her.

I placed my hand gently on her shoulder, leading her to the small settee near the window and nodded for her to sit down. She blotted her eyes, wiping away the make-up crap she cried off and blew her nose daintily. She crossed her ankles demurely and tucked them under the settee. Her back was rigid and never came close to touching the back of the seat.

_She's got class; a lady. This dame was waaaay out of my league. _

I sat down beside her and took a notepad and pen from my breast pocket. I tilted the brim of my hat up with the tip of the pen as I flipped open the spiral notepad. At the click of the pen, I looked at her and asked my first question.

"Are you ready to begin?" I asked gently. She smiled softly and nodded.

"Have you noticed anyone new coming to the house lately? Did your father introduce you to any new acquaintances that struck you as unusual at all?" I began.

She thought for a moment, her eyes shifting upwards as she presumably racked her brain. "No one comes to mind," she answered quietly.

"Anyone at the memorial service you didn't recognize?" I asked carefully.

Her chin twitched ever so slightly before her shoulders squared and she gave her answer. "No," she said firmly.

_Not only classy, courageous too._

"What about the help? Any altercations with them?" I asked as I tapped my pen against the still blank notepad.

She glared at me, her eyes little slits. "The _help_, as you so call put it, were treated like family by my father. My father was a good man, he didn't have to, but when we moved here, he took in Joyce and Buffy, whom was a young child at the time, after her father passed away in the war. He provided a roof over their head and food in their stomach. As for the other's he regarded them just as kindly."

"I didn't mean to cause offense ma'am," I stated sincerely as I watched the muscle in her jaw clench. "Just doing my job is all."

She nodded her head in acceptance but her eyes remained stormy.

"Who's Joyce?" I asked next, not remembering the name among those Tara-Rose spat off earlier.

"She was our maid and Buffy's mother," she replied as she finished dabbing at her eyes. "She passed away a few years ago from cancer."

I could sense the death of Mrs. Joyce was a touchy subject and didn't pursue further in my questioning of the staff.

"Do you mind if I pay a visit to the county club and the office? Maybe talk to a few of his friends?" I continued.

"Not at all, Red. Do what you feel is necessary," she replied as she dabbed at her nose and stood up to pluck her purse off of the desk. Returning to her seat beside me she pulled out a silver compact and clicked it open.

"You know you don't need that crap, right?" I asked, perplexed that she would cover up such natural beauty.

"What do you mean?" she asked as she patted her delicate cheekbone with the little puff.

"I understand it's all a part of the job, part of the show, but I like you without all the paint. You don't have to wear it around me," I said, and suddenly felt like I crossed a line. She turned to look at me and gave me a genuinely grateful look that went straight to my gut.

Before she could say something, I stood and went to the desk, pushing the chair away to make sure I didn't start the waterworks again with my insensitivity. I picked up the Gala invitation and eyed her cautiously. She only watched me intently, still sitting gracefully erect on the settee like a golden Grecian statue.

"Were you planning on going?" I asked and waved the envelope slowly in front of me.

"I was… we were, before … "she whispered but no signs of tears. "I'm not sure if I will be attending the event now unless I can somehow persuade Donald to take me. Without him escorting me, it would be inappropriate to go on my own.

"Hmm, well, we really need to crash this party. Do some people-watching, people-listening. You said he was friendly with everyone, so every Tom, Dick, and Harry along with their brother's is a suspect." I hesitated for a moment before getting to the meat and potatoes of the issue, "Would you mind if I escorted you?" I said casually as I rifled through the top drawer.

She paused for a moment and just stared at me deep in contemplation I presumed before finally speaking. "Not at all, Miss Rosenberg," she said much too softly. I knew better than to look up so I kept my attention on the contents of the drawer I was rummaging through. I pulled out a check register and opened it, skimming through the pages until I came to the last few weeks of entries. There were several checks written to the staff for their pay, a payment to a roofing company for a small repair that has been done to the house, a check written out to Dr. Rupert Giles? My hand froze over the page for a brief moment before automatically reaching for my smokes and lighting one hurriedly. I took a long pull and forced myself to focus, plenty of time to mull over the implications of that later. The date on the check was two weeks ago and the memo line read "annual physical".

"You're father's visit with the doctor went smoothly? Nothing was found?" I questioned.

"No. Daddy was healthy; he took care of himself like I said. He was a firm believer that his image was a reflection on the company."

"His doctor was Dr. Giles?" I asked inquiringly, really fucking hoping it wasn't my God Father, Dr. Rupert Neil Giles, but knowing full well it probably was.

"Yes, Dr. Rupert Giles and his wife Jennifer have been good friends of our family for the last decade or so," she said and my heart squeezed at hearing their names spoken out loud. "Do you know them?" she asked.

"Once," I said quickly and took another long drag of my Lucky Strike. Instead of looking up to see her reaction, I continued to pillage the drawers. Towards the back of the second drawer, I pulled out a rumpled and dirty piece of paper and plucked apart the well creased folds.

_We want our money, times running out. Pay up or you'll be taking a one way cruise down the Hudson River with a new pair of cement shoes._

"Have you seen this note before?" I said to Tara-Rose, holding it out for her to examine. She took it from me and read it quickly. As she stood next to me, I caught the scent of her roses again.

"No, never," she said with alarm, her brow creasing in concern and confusion.

_Now I'm getting somewhere._

I took the note, refolded it and put it in my breast pocket where I had taken my notepad from. "Is your brother home? I'd like to meet him," I asked.

"I'm not sure; he might still be out, the funeral was hard on him. Follow me downstairs," she said and turned to leave the room. The swishing hem of her skirt as she walked played seductively around her calves. My eyes traveled up to the soft curve of her hips, to her tumble of golden curls and I knew then and there it would be a miracle if I got this case solved and myself away from this Sheba intact.

At the bottom of the stairs she called to the maid, Buffy, who scurried into the hall a moment later.

"Is Donald home?" Tara-Rose questioned her.

"No he isn't Miss Maclay. He never returned home after the funeral," she replied, looking disappointed that she was not of more help. Tara-Rose turned to me, her blue eyes clear and devoid of any evidence of her earlier tears.

"When I see him, I will arrange a time for you to meet him. Perhaps sometime tomorrow?" she asked hopefully but didn't give me time to answer.

"Give me your notepad," she said taking it gently from my hand. She reached for the pen in my other hand and plucked it from my fingers. Her fingers brushed against my hand and I almost shivered. She quickly wrote something down and handed the pad back to me.

"My phone number," she explained, "call me in the morning and I'll tell you when to come by," she smiled. "Buffy, will you get Miss Rosenberg her things please and call her a cab. Oh, I broke something in the study; can you please get that taken care of?" Buffy bobbed a curtsy and departed quickly.

"Red … I wanted to thank you. Not only for taking my case, but for being … understanding upstairs," she said and took a step towards me. She gently placed her hands flatly on my chest. I stood there frozen and a little dazed as I felt her soft red lips place a lingering kiss on my cheek. She pulled away and stepped back.

I cleared my throat and nervously snatched my overcoat from Buffy as she approached with my things. I pushed my hair back out of my face as I repositioned my hat on my head before shrugging into my coat.

"Thanks, Buffy. Be a doll, won't you, and let the other staff know I'll be around tomorrow to ask them some questions?" I requested and grinned at her as I adjusted my coat over my shoulders.

"Yes, ma'am, anything we can do to help," she nodded genuinely.

"Until tomorrow, Tara-Rose," I said, taking off my hat and bowing slightly. Buffy opened the door and I turned on my heel and left. Stepping out onto the porch, I pulled my coat tighter to my body, warning off the cold gusts of wind. I looked around the property once more, taking in the perfectly quaffed lawn before resting my gaze on a large tree to the far left of the property, taking in the drooping lance-shaped branches. Shaking my head, I pulled the coat tighter to my body once more before bounding down the steps to the awaiting cab.

The cab was freezing and I turned up the collar of my coat as I gave the cabbie my address in the south side neighborhood of Harlem.

I settled into the seat and took a generous swig of bourbon from my flask. As I felt the warmth of the bourbon burn through my chest, I mapped out my plan for the case.

First, I needed to question all of the staff; the help always knew _everything_. I was hoping they could give me enough that I wouldn't need to look any farther. Attending that Gala meant spending more time with the lovely Tara-Rose, and I really wanted to get out of this case in one piece. _That_ Gala with _that_ dame and _that_ crowd … no way I was making it out of there unscathed. The less time I spent with Tara-Rose Maclay, the better.

Since I was never that lucky, I was going to have to visit the county club and pay some friendly calls to the friends Tara-Rose had mentioned: Vincent Astor, Richard Wilkins, and Theodore Smithe. I'd met Vincent Astor and Theodore Smithe before, under circumstances that hit much closer to their respective homes. The rich didn't have _skeletons_ in the closet; they usually had a whole graveyard. But who was I to talk? I had three or four coffins under my bed too.

The cab pulled up to the curb in front of my building and I paid the cabbie my fare and got out. My apartment was cold and dark once I got inside and I hurried to the old radiator to turn up the heat. As I took off my overcoat, suit jacket and hat, I snapped on the Victrola and Tommy Dorsey's 'In the Blue of the Evening' filled the small room while I proceeded to empty the contents of my pockets on the desk.

I loosened my tie and pulled my gun out of the holster, placing it softly on the desk as I sat down. The guns cold blue steel shimmered as it caught the yellow lamplight and I traced the handle's outline with my index finger. It was the gun that had started my solo career. The gun that had once belonged to my father; that he had used every day on the job before the job caught up with him. I didn't originally want this lifestyle; neither did my pops, but I _had_ to finish his case that left him pushing up daisies. I owed him that much, catching his killer. I was hooked after that and his gun, his trusted sidepiece, made me feel close to the old man.

Now, the possibility I had dreaded for the past two years had finally happened. I was more than likely going to have to face my God Father; the man I was justifiably upset with for providing my father the gig that ended his life, in order to do my job. I picked up my pack and gently shook a cigarette out halfway. I slowly brought the pack to my lips, wrapping them around the filter, and tried not to think about seeing the man who was inadvertently responsible for my father's death.

_Shoud've left New York months ago, like I wanted to, then I wouldn't be in this jam. _

The song on the radio changed, and I heard my favorite jazz singer, Billie Holiday, crooning "Stormy Weather".

I poured myself some bourbon and took a draw from my smoke. Tara-Rose Maclay. Her chaste little peck on the cheek before I left her standing in the hall of her mansion played itself over and over again in my mind. I brought my fingers up to my face and rubbed, realizing I probably had lipstick on my cheek. For some reason I didn't mind; not if it was her lipstick.

Tara-Rose Maclay. In one afternoon she had managed to flip everything on its head, and in turn, I couldn't get her out of my head.


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER: 5

TPOV

Book in hand; I sat on the settee chair near the window in my father's study. On so many occasions, I often came to this room when I needed to clear my head. The silence of the study mixed with the familiar odor of distilled liquor, my father's cigars and his cologne, allowed me to always think through my qualms peacefully, knowing I was somewhere safe. At the moment, with my thoughts all muddled, I needed Daddy's presence in my life. Just being there in the room that held all of his things and that once belonged to him made me feel comforted, as though I was surrounded by him even though he wasn't physically there. My eyes were trained on my book, but I was distracted by the movement outside the door.

Shifting my cumbersome book, _Gone with the Wind_, to lay flat on my lap, I looked over to Buffy standing in the doorframe with her hands clasped together in front of her. I gave her a demure smile, indicating that it was okay for her to enter the study which had become my sanctuary.

"Miss Tara-Rose," Buffy said as she stepped lightly into the room. "Detective Rosenberg just telephoned. She said that she'll be here within the hour."

"Thank you, Buffy." I said as I stood up from the settee. "Did my brother return? I didn't hear him come in yesterday."

"Yes ma'am, Mr. Donald returned late last night. Would you like me to go fetch him?" she inquired.

"No, that's okay Buffy," I said as I placed the well-worn book onto my father's desk. "I'll go speak with him."

She curtseyed respectfully before exiting the room, the soft click of her heels reverberating on the hardwood floor as she descended the staircase. I waited until I could no longer hear her before walking out of the study and down the hall, stopping outside of my brother's bedroom. Knocking lightly, I gently called out to Donald, letting him know I needed to speak with him.

After several moments, the door slowly pulled open, revealing a weary Donald, clad in silk pajamas not unlike the ones I had found our father in. The light blue of his top contrasted starkly with the angry purple bruise formulating over his right eye. Gasping in shock, I instinctively reached for his face, the tips of my fingers gingerly tracing the puffy flesh.

"Donald, what happened?" I asked as he hissed in pain from the slight caress. "Who did this to you?"

"I'm okay big sister," he replied humbly as he took hold of my hand touching his face. "Got into a bit of a tussle at the bar last night with the boys."

"Donald, I wish you wouldn't go to such places," I scolded lovingly. "You're asking for nothing but bad business there."

"Ease up, sis." He smirked, his boyish charm shining through. "The boys and I got a bit sauced after the funeral and got into a little rhubarb at Willy's with some knuckleheads. No harm."

"I'm just worried one of these days, you're going to get into a fight with a gunsel over bupkis and I'll be burying you too." I couldn't keep the hitch out of my voice. In twenty six years, I've been to far too many funeral's, predominately with my family's namesake. I couldn't bear the thought of having to go to another one; of having to bury my baby brother. He must have read into my apprehension. Grabbing me by the shoulders, he tilted his head down to look me straight in the eyes as he spoke.

"Never," he said strongly. Pulling me towards him, my head resting flush with his chest, he wrapped his arms around my back and squeezed me tight. "I promise, Tara, you don't ever have to worry about me."

I allowed him to hold me for a few moments longer, rejoicing in his comforting embrace, before pushing away. "You're my little brother. I'll always worry about you," I replied genuinely, a small smile etching my lips. He returned the smile as he stepped back into his room, crossing the carpeted floor to his walk-in closet. I watched as he pulled out a crisp white button down shirt and blue sweater, a pair of tan Ivy Leaguers already lying on his unkempt bed.

"Oh, Donald, I need you to stick around for a little while," I called out as I noticed him preparing his clothes for the day. "I hired a detective yesterday to look into Daddy's death. Detective Rosenberg will be here shortly and wanted to talk to everyone. "

He looked at me inquisitively, his eyebrows drawing together. "You hired a gumshoe, why? The coroner said Daddy had a heart attack."

"I'm just finding it hard to believe," I said honestly. "He was in excellent health. Are you not the least bit suspicious?"

"I'm not the medical professional, Tara-Rose." Donald huffed out as he proceeded to change his clothing. "Anyways, I can't stay. I'm late for school as it is."

"Donald, this is important," I rebuked.

"I'm not saying it's not," he cantered as he pulled his wool sweater over his head, his hands instinctively smoothing out the fabric along his torso. "Get me the Detectives number and I'll call him when I return home."

I smirked inwardly at Donald's assumption that the Detective was male, having made the same mistake myself upon first speaking with Red over the phone. He was going to be in for a world of surprise when he came face to face with the beautiful Private-Eye, I know I was. Nodding my head acquiescently, knowing full well Donald couldn't afford to miss out on another day of school, "I'll let Detective Rosenberg know that you had to leave and to be expecting your phone call."

"Thanks, sis," he said as he walked toward me, bending down by the doorframe to retrieve his satchel full of school books. Abruptly, he stood up; snapping his fingers and pointed at me, "Oh, I'm having Alexander drive me and then run a few errands on my behalf. You might want to let the Detective know he won't be around to speak with either," Donald said as he brushed past, his tailored loafers clacking softly as he walked down the hall, the noise fading as he neared the last step. At a slower, more respectable pace, I made my way down the curvy staircase, stopping at the landing when the sight of snow caught my attention through the front window. I watched for a short while, mesmerized as small white flakes trickled from the sky to the ground, lightly dusting the dead grass. Spinning on my heel, I headed toward the kitchen in search of a cup of coffee.

As I sat at the breakfast table, occasionally taking sips of the steaming beverage in front of me, I couldn't help but become anxious as I awaited the Detective's arrival. My fingers strummed against the polished oak table repeatedly, the rhythm steadily increasing. The time passed in furious heartbeats and now and then stopped completely when I would hear the beep of a car horn on a distant highway. As I willed the minutes to move by faster, I couldn't stop moving my fingers from their endless fidgeting. They skimmed the full skirt of my dress and flittered to the neckline, playing with the collar.

Looking to do something, anything to keep busy, my fingers continued along the journey. They ran to my necklace, touching each pearl that sat along the delicate strand. Trailing up further, my fingers found the pin that held my hair in place and secured it in the tightly wrapped chignon sitting at the nape of my neck. I had spent much time and effort on my appearance this morning. More so than usual. The reason as to why had my head whirling, which was also the reason why I had gone into my father's study this morning in the first place seeking comfort.

After Red had left yesterday, I found myself sitting in my father's office, staring blankly at the wall, missing the warmth she brought with her into the room. I don't know why, but when I thought about the spitfire of a woman, a flush overtook my body. We hadn't even known each other longer than five hours and our conversations had meandered toward hostile at points, yet, I already felt more of an attraction to her then I have ever felt toward anyone else. I pressed a hand to my stomach and took a deep breath, trying to calm it and myself. I was a tangle of both nerves and excitement and I could feel the energy coursing through my veins, pumping through my body with each beat of my steady heart.

It wasn't until I heard tires crunching on gravel and Buffy's cheerful humming alerting me to Red's arrival did I finally gain some composure. I waited at the table, my ears strained and my eyes flittering to the open doorway. It felt like an eternity before Buffy entered the kitchen, a wry smile on her face as she informed me that Detective Rosenberg had just arrived.

I thanked her and stood up slowly, my hand wiping at my pleated skirt to press out any creases. Walking out of the kitchen, I entered the foyer to find the Detective admiring the grand staircase, a lazy smile on her face. Greedily, my eyes drank in the pleasant sight before me. Her shaggy red hair, slightly wet at the tips from the falling snow, cascaded haphazardly over her face, shielding her seafoam green eyes. Her long lean body expertly tailored in a navy blue double breasted suit, a hint of a red tie peeking out from underneath the suits matching vest. The sight of her was purely beautiful and I was enraptured. I wasn't fast enough to come back to my senses; she caught my unabashed staring and smirked in response. "Like what you see, Tare?"

Rolling my eyes, I decided to fain innocent, although I'm sure my blush gave me away. Motioning for her to follow me, I turned on heel and walked back into the kitchen where Buffy was standing with a carafe of coffee in her hand, awaiting our return. Behind her, Liam, our in house cook, stood motionlessly with his hands crossed behind his back. I assumed Buffy had requested his presence in preparation for questioning. I once again gave her a demure smile, forever grateful for all that she does.

"Detective Rosenberg, this is our cook, Liam," I said, introducing the two. "He has worked for us for about a year now."

"Ma'am" Liam said in greeting as he nodded his head towards the Detective who reciprocated the action.

"I was just finishing up my coffee, Red. Why don't you join me?" I persuaded as I reclaimed my seat at the table.

"With all due respect," she said as she pulled out her spiral notepad and pen, "I'd like to start talking with your staff." She gave me a pointed look as she tapped her pen against the binding of the pad.

"Of course," I said politely as I pushed my chair backward. Gracefully, I got to my feet and locked eyes with the aloof Detective. "I'll be upstairs if you need me." I started to walk away, nearly out of the kitchen, when I remembered something. Pivoting, my body half encased by the doorframe, I called out to the woman, "Oh, Detective Rosenberg, Alexander had to leave to bring my brother to school. Donald said he'll give you a call when he returns home to set up a meeting and answer all of your questions."

I couldn't be sure, but I turned away, I thought I heard her grumble something under her breath.


	6. Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

WPOV

I woke up the next morning cursing Wild Turkey for the evil that it was as I propped myself slowly up on one elbow and ran my hand over my face. I'd slept in my clothes and they were rumpled and stank of bourbon, sweat, and cigarette smoke. I knew from experience that a scalding hot shower was the only thing that was going to make me feel human again. I only wished I had been coherent enough last night to take my trusted hangover preventative, two aspirin tablets and a huge glass of water. I slowly, painfully, sat up and scooted to the edge of the bed. A quick glance at the clock told me it was nearing midmorning, nine twenty-three in the morning to be exact. I had to put a wiggle in it and get moving. I had a list of difficult things to be done, the first of which would be a trip to the Maclay house. I started peeling off my soiled clothes; my fingers, fat and uncoordinated with grogginess, fumbled with the buttons on my shirt. As I stood up to head to the john for that much needed shower, I hoped the hot water would lessen that dull, throbbing ache in my head. Today, I needed to have my wits about me, because today was to be day one in cracking this case.

The steam of the shower started to work its magic and I felt the stupor of too much bourbon begin to slowly shift. I struggled to put my thought in order. The first thing I needed to do was call the Maclay estate to let Tara know I was on my way to her house to speak with Donald. Then, I'd move on to the next matter at hand, sleuthing the rest of the household and try my damnedest to get a solid lead on this case. And lastly, track down Mr. Maclay's closest friends. I hurried and finished up in the shower, brushed my teeth, got dressed and was out the door within twenty minutes, only stopping at my desk long enough to ring Tara.

On mornings like this, I considered coffee to be the nectar of the gods, but I didn't want to waste time stopping for some. I wanted to get to the estate. I wanted to get this case over with, with my dignity intact. Anyways, I felt that suffering through my hangover was some small penance for being such an all-around jackass. Stepping up to the curb, my black laced shoes crunching on the slushy grey snow that had fallen at some point over night, I hailed a cab.

The traffic signal was stuck on red. I stared at it, willing it to change and drumming my fingernails in time with Lucy Ann Polk crooning on the radio, "Back in Your Own Backyard." I was pretty sure that the cabbie was going to throw me out of the car before we even got to the Maclay estate; I was driving him bananas with my impatience. I leaned forward like an anxious child and spoke by the cabbies ear. "How much further?"

The cabbies low chortle floated through the air and he shook his head in disbelief "Ya mean since the last time ye asked me, two minutes ago?" he said, his thick Irish accent making his words hard to decipher. "Still thirty minutes." I leaned back into my seat, the base of my skull pressed against the headrest as I stared expressionlessly upward at the smoke stained fabric of the cab. I should have stopped for that coffee, my head was pounding and my feet were freezing where the snow dampened the leather. Huffing in annoyance, I tilted my head to the side, aimlessly staring out the window.

Half an hour later, I found myself once again standing in front of Tara-Rose's mansion. It loomed over me with cheerful menace, its bright white walls contrasting starkly against the overcast grey sky. Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out some fare money and handed it over to the cabbie, thanking him for the ride as I stepped out of the vehicle. As I was about to step up onto the porch, prepared to knock, Buffy opened the door and waved me inside. I walked into the foyer and grinned sheepishly at her as I tracked in mud.

"Hi, Buffy." I said courteously as I wiped melting snowflakes off of my coat.

"Hello, Miss Rosenberg. It's good to see you," she said sincerely even though it had only been a few short hours since we parted ways.

"Good to see you too," I replied as I shuck off my overcoat for her to place in the hall closet. "Is Miss Tara-Rose here?"

"Yes, let me fetch her for you," she said as she bobbed a curtsy, then shut the door and scurried off to the kitchen.

I took off my fedora and dropped it on the entryway table, then took a deep breath as my gaze traveled across the open foyer, admiring the vast array of artwork adorning the walls and the royal red carpet rolled out to protect the chestnut wood flooring. My attention slowly shifted to the massive curvy white staircase, admiring its craftsmanship. A smile subconsciously graced my lips as the sound of Tara-Rose's melodic voice wafted through the air. I stood still a moment longer, appreciating how the light from the stained glass windows danced across the finely polished wood of the stairs. It wasn't until I had the unsettling feeling that I was being watched, did I turn.

There, in the same doorway Buffy had disappeared through, now stood Tara-Rose. Her eyes were unabashedly racking over my figure. I smirked, internally happy that I had chosen my more formfitting suit today. The suit had costed me more money than I wanted to spend, but dad always said, 'the suit makes the man', and I had to admit, I did look rather spivvy. Brushing the hair hanging over my forehead away from my eyes, "Like what you see, Tare?"

She rolled her eyes at me in what could only be mock annoyance as a feverish blush erupted across her chest and rapidly made its way up her neck to her ears. Without a word, she motioned for me to follow her, turning on her heels and heading to the kitchen before I could speak. I waited a few seconds before I followed, allowing myself the opportunity to fully appreciate the blonde's wardrobe as she walked away. Her solid green day dress accented with white piping hugged her in all the right places. The high, synched waist of the pleated skirt created an hourglass silhouette that had my head spinning with thoughts best not to dwell on.

I shook my head; I needed to focus on this case and not on the curves of the dreamboat in front of me. With a new resolve, I marched into the kitchen. Standing before me was a tall, dark haired gentleman with his hands firmly clasped behind his back; presumably another staff member. Next to him stood Buffy, a carafe of coffee in hand, and my new best friend as I relished in the thought of a cup of hot joe to help ease away the remainder of my headache.

"Detective Rosenberg, this is our cook, Liam," Tara-Rose said, in introduction. "He has worked for us for about a year now."

"Ma'am" he replied as he bowed his head slightly, his face expressionless. Returning the acknowledgement, I nodded back as I sized up the man.

He looked familiar. I'm certain I've run into him before but I couldn't place my finger on as to where. His eyes narrowed at me, as if he too were trying to figure out where he'd seen me before.

"I was just finishing up my coffee, Red." Said Tara-Rose; her voice pulling me out of my scrutinizing. Shifting my attention, I watched as Tara-Rose pulled out a chair at the table and sat down delicately. "Why don't you join me?"

"With all due respect," I said in my most professional tone as I pulled my spiral notepad and pen out of my jacket pocket, "I'd like to start talking with your staff."

I needed to start my questioning as soon as possible. If Mr. Maclay's death had been the result of foul play, the more time I wasted chatting up this skirt would result in the murderer having more time to come up with an alibi. And if I was perfectly honest, having her this close to me, her rose perfume assaulting my senses, was driving me wild with want. I needed her as far away as possible so I could do my job effectively without thoughts of running my tongue up the base of her neck, tracing the route of her blush. I shot her a pointed look, making it perfectly clear I couldn't be persuade as I tapped the tip of my pen against the binding of the pad.

"Of course," she had responded politely, her forced smile screaming anything but. I watched as she elegantly stood; her movement seamless. Refusing to watch her leave, not wanting to get distracted by her gams peek-a-booing out of her knee length skirt, I aimlessly flipped through my notepad, acting as if I was searching for a certain page. It wasn't until I heard her call out to me that I stopped my page flicking and looked up.

"Oh, Red, Alexander had to leave to bring my brother to school. Donald said he'll give you a call when he returns home to set up a meeting."

"Typical," I mumbled under my breath, not acknowledging Tara-Rose directly. "Just what I wanted to do tonight, wait by the phone."

As soon as she exited the room, I shifted my eyes to Buffy's, the pot of coffee calling to me. She must have noticed me eyeing the container; that or the slight red tint under my eyelid told her I was nursing a hangover. Either way, she wordlessly approached the table and poured me a helping of the hot beverage. "Do you need anything else?" she asked me.

"No, this will do," I replied as I approached the table. "Please, sit, both of you."

I waved them over, gesturing to the two chairs on the opposite side of the table. Lifting the cup of joe, I sipped the dark liquid, my eyes instinctively closing as the hot beverage hit my tongue and warmed me from the inside. I waited until they were both seated and comfortable before placing the now half empty cup back onto the saucer in front of me.

It wasn't until he placed his arms on top of the table did I realize where I've seen him before. Tattooed on his right hand, between the thumb and forefinger; five precise circles. This man had spent time in the clink. He had been collared by none other than my pops quite a few years back. Liam O'Conner, he was a torpedo for mob boss Blue Lue Boyle, and had been a pretty good one at that. In 1934, his poster had been plastered in every precinct in the five boroughs as well as on the wall in my father's office for a solid year before he was finally pinched. I tried to keep my expression motionless, my eyebrows neutral and my eyes downcast so as not to give anything away.

Reaching for the notepad, I flipped to an empty page and proceeded to write down Liam's name. With my head bent, I flicked my eyes upward, taking in the brooding man's appearance once more before drawing three lines under his name. Suspect number one.

I decided to start off with an easy question "How long have you both been employed by the Maclay's?"

"I was sixteen when Mr. Maclay took me and my mother on," provided Buffy. "I have been working for the family for nearly a decade."

I made some notations in my book before turning my attention to Liam. Tara-Rose had already stated his length of employment but I wanted to hear from Liam himself. "And you?"

"Ten months," he replied, his voice low and gruff.

I jotted down his response, new questions instantly formulating in my mind. "What did you do before this?"

His mouth contorted, the edges of his lip curling upward into a snarl. My gaze never wavered from his. I kept eye contact, expecting him to lie through his teeth. "I'd spent the previous eight years in Rikers Island. I assisted on the chow line."

I flicked my eyes toward Buffy, half expecting her to flinch or move away from the convicted felon. She never moved; showing no signs of being phased by Liam's statement. I arched my eyebrow as I stared at her a moment longer. Pulling my gaze away, I looked down at my notepad, the page filling rapidly.

"What were you imprisoned for?" I didn't need to lift my head; I knew by his earlier straightforwardness that he wasn't going to lie.

"First degree assault, first degree kidnapping and second degree theft," he said dryly, "among other things."

I already knew what Liam had been found guilty of but I scribbled down his wrongdoings anyway; giving the pretense I was hearing this information for the first time. Notating the degree of his offenses, I inwardly steamed up.

The man, to my knowledge, had spent most of his life as a hired killer, starting his career at the tender age of fifteen. He was proficient in his killings, achieving infamy as the most sadistic gunsel in Boyle's family. His brutality didn't go unnoticed and he quickly rose through the ranks of Blue Lou Boyle's coterie, earning himself the nickname "Angel of Death'. With all of his murders, neither my father nor the flatfoots were ever able to scrape together enough evidence that would hold up in the court of law. And without eyewitness testimonies, the bloke was allowed to walk free time after time.

That's why I had never understood how a button man could muck up so badly. If he had not stolen a 1933 Singer Bantam, and carelessly left it parked outside his victim's home on Brownstone, he would've never been caught by my old man. He would still be out on the streets, ruthlessly following orders from his boss, and I'd be the new Rosenberg hunting him down. It was pure dumb luck and sheer stupidity that ended up being Liam's downfall, and even though the sentence doled out had been miniscule, I for one wasn't going to argue as long as he was behind bars. So color me shocked when a renowned assassin was working in the kitchen of the man whose death I was hired to investigate.

I grilled the two for over an hour, shifting my questions between them. I inquired how they came about their jobs, about the fellow staff, if they noticed anyone unfamiliar hanging around the house, or if Mr. Maclay had any known enemies. I processed their answers, making notes and pondering over possibilities or motives. When I was certain I had enough information, I dismissed the two so they could get back to their responsibilities.

I was about to exit the kitchen in search of the landscaper, Riley, when I stopped in my tracks. Turning on the heel of my foot, I stared at the dark haired man, my expression rigid. "Don't go far; I might have more questions for you."

Entering the hall, I pulled my overcoat from the closet and shrugged it on in preparation to head outside. Pulling the coat tight around my frame, I opened the front door, grimacing at the sight of snow rapidly free falling from the sky. Walking out of the house, I hurried down the slick stairs and trudged across the lawn. Stopping outside a large shack, I banged on the door, shouting my presence.

"Riley Finn, it's Detective Rosenberg; I need a minute of your time."

I heard shuffling inside the building followed by the sound of metal clinking together. I waited impatiently out in the cold, snowflakes leaving a thin layer of white on my shoulders as others melted when making contact with my skin. Shivering, my cheeks burning from the blistering air, I grumbled under my breath for the second time in so many hours.

"Mr. Finn!" I shouted as I banged on the door again, the force of my closed fist rattling the wood.

Moments later, the door swung open to reveal a sheepishly smiling man. "I'm sorry about that, I was changing out of my wet clothes," he said as he took a step back, his arm sweeping to the side as he gestured for me to step inside. "Come in, come in."

Stepping over the threshold, my leather clad shoes crunched on hay strategically placed over the barn wood flooring by the doorframe to absorb the water from the soles of my shoes. Rotating my head from left to right, I observed the man's sparsely furnished sleeping quarters. To the back, far left side of the cottage, a single occupancy cot rested flush with the wall, two gray quilts neatly tucked around the mattress. Adjacent to the bed, I noticed a well-worn lounger, the arms patched with mismatched fabric. Located between the two pieces of furniture was a chipped brick fireplace; a small fire blazing inside, illuminating the small cottage while filling it with warmth. To my right was a closed door, presumably leading to the bathroom. To the left of me was a small kitchenette, closely resembling that of the one in my own studio. A Murphy A46 rested on the counter; the soft harmonious tone of Joey Nash's "Winter Wonderland" quietly penetrated the silence.

As Riley closed the door behind me, I crossed to the back of the cottage, shucking off my overcoat once I reached the fireplace. Folding my coat over my arm, I lowered myself into the fireside chair, my body sinking into the worn springs. Readjusting into a more comforting position, I pulled my notepad from my pocket as the warmth emanating from the fireplace quickly worked its way through my clothing, heating my chilled bones.

Looking up from my notes, I watched him walk towards me, noticing a slight limp in his gate. He wordlessly stood in front of his cot, his posture rigid as he gestured to me to begin my sleuthing with a nod of his head. I took in the way her stood perched in front of his cot, his legs slightly parted; hands folded behind his lower back, with his shoulders squared and pushed backwards. Just from his posture I could tell off the bat that he was former military. His face gave nothing away, his features hardened and unwavering. Even his landscaping uniform was pristine, not a wrinkle out of place or grass stain in sight.

I jumped right into the questioning, grilling Riley just as hard as I had Liam and Buffy. "How long have you worked for the Maclay's?

"Since March 3rd, 1941."

"What were you doing before that?" Again I knew the answer before it was said to me.

"Serving my country," he said; pride evident in his tone.

"Why did you leave?"

"Honorably discharged," he replied, a slight twinge of sadness creeping into his hazel eyes. Bending over, he pulled up his left pant leg, showing off a plastic prosthetic leg. "A bouncing betty took me out from the knee down."

I pinched my lips together at his words. Not wanting to dwell on a touchy subject, I jumped right to my next question. I put the screws to Riley for another fifty minutes, his answers always precise and to the point. I respected him even more, glad I didn't have to be bogged down fruitlessly bumping gums. Bidding my farewell, I made my way back to the estate.

Entering the main house, I stomped my feet on the rug, the movement dislodging the snow caked around my shoes. As the sound of my feet hitting the ground echoed throughout the stilled home, Tara emerged at the top of the staircase, her hands resting delicately on the banister as she looked down at me.

"I assume you still plan on attending the Gala Saturday?" she asked, her question seemingly out of nowhere. "Not to be presumptuous, but I assume you'll not be in a dress."

"Am I that easy to read, doll?" I asked with a smirk, a slight chuckle emerging from the back of my throat. "No, best I stay in a suit and under the disguise of a man while escorting you. Like you said, it would be inappropriate for a woman to attend the Gala without a male chaperon."

"If that's the case, we'll need to find you something to wear." She replied as she gave me the hairy eyeball. "Your suit simply won't do."

I looked down at my suit; half offended at the notion that she thought my clothing attire unsuitable. Cocking my eyes back up to meet her, I arched an eyebrow in silent questioning. The Gala was only a few days away and I didn't have the time, money or want to acquire a newly tailored suit. Without saying a word, she read my mind.

"I'll go through Donald's closet. He must have an old tuxedo or two that he's outgrown."

I nodded my head in silent acceptance. A deafening silence began to loom around us as we awkwardly stared at one another. From where I stood by the front door, the low call of a mourning dove from the weeping willow in the corner of the yard lingered in the air. Its sweet coo-oo-oo called my attention to that direction and I watched the bird through the window flutter its wings and hop to the ground from one of the tree's branches in search of food. A car glided down the street and the bird startled, taking flight as the car drew closer. Squinting into the suns low rays, I raised a hand to shade my eyes, as I watched the car drive closer, realizing Tara-Rose must have called me a cab while I was speaking with Riley. As the taxi cab came to a stop outside of the house, the driver stepping out to open the back passenger door, I turned to the blonde still standing at the top of the staircase.

"My ride's here." I exclaimed pointlessly.

"Be safe getting home," she called out, her tone of voice sincere. "I'll see you tomorrow, Red. Have a good night."

Sighing deeply, my eyes shutting momentarily, "Willow."

"Come again?" she said softly, her brows knitted together in confusion.

"Willow ..." I replied simply, with a soft shrug of my shoulders. "That's my name." As I reveled to her my surname, I watched a radiant smile envelope her lips, her pearly white teeth gleaming almost as brightly as her sapphire eyes. Opening the front door with my left hand, I reached my right hand up to my fedora, tilting the brim in her direction before making my exit.

Stepping back out into the elements, I briskly made my way to the waiting cab and scooted inside. Slamming the door shut behind me, the cabbie reloaded himself behind the wheel, his head cocking over his shoulder, "Where to?"

I provided him with my address and then settled back into the seat, preparing myself for the long ride home. As the car started to move, taking me farther and farther away from the Maclay estate, I couldn't help but think about that dame, and the way she had looked at me, and how I wanted to see her again, close, without a silly staircase between us.


	7. Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

TPOV

A large clap of thunder startled me from my sleep as my bed shook from the violent aftermath. As random spurts of lightening illuminated my room, my pupils began to dilate, slowly adjusting to the darkness. I had never been a fan of storms ever since I was a small child. The wailing sound of the wind coupled with the venomous booms of thunder always provoked fear into my heart.

As the storm continued to thrash outside my window, I stared at the ceiling fan above my bed for several long minutes, watching brilliant shocks of white dance across the blades as my mind drifted to thoughts of Willow, wondering if she despised thunderstorms as much as I did. As another thunderous boom rattled my living courters, I pulled the comforter up and over my head, flipping to my left side as I flopped down on my pillow.

My fingers flexed under the blanket, repeatedly gripping and releasing the sheets as I stared blankly into the darkness; my mind wheeling between thoughts of the storm and of Willow. It wasn't until I felt a slight pain in my jaw did I realize that my teeth were chattering like a wheel-barrel collecting rain. I tried to calm my frazzled nerve by listening to the muted hum of the fan, the short metal chain clicking in time against the plastic with each rotation, creating a rhythmic beat. As the noise of the fan blurred together with the sound of rain pinging against the windowpane, I tried to force myself back to sleep but it was futile.

As another loud crack and bright flash of light roared through the sky, I squeezed my eyes tightly shut as I tried to imagine pleasant thoughts, a trick my father once taught me when I was six and had snuck into his room one night during a particularly horrendous storm. It took several seconds of deep breathing before I was able to conjure up happy images that would ease my anxiousness: my mother singing me to sleep, my father taking Donald and I to Coney Island, my childhood cat, Trixie. It wasn't long before my thoughts crept back to Willow, her beautiful face consuming my mind and distracting me from the storm raging outside of my window.

My heart began to flutter for a whole new reason as I thought back to the previous evening and of Willow standing in the foyer, her doe eyes staring up at me from under her fedora as she told me her name. My eyes transfixed the whole entire time on the hairpin curve of her lips. Her smile had sent my mind into an uncontrolled, captivated spiral; it branded my soul with a simple mark: infatuation.

I had worn a silly smile after she left; my infectious grin not going unnoticed by all who passed me. When it had been time to sit down for supper, Donald questioned me on my good mood, noting that I seemed significantly happier than I had been earlier that morning. I had played it off, informing him that Detective Rosenberg was making leeway on the case and that I was simply happy with the outcome so far. I didn't elaborate any further, nor did I need to as this seemed to have appeased him. We ate the rest of our meal in relative silence, occasionally speaking only to ask how the others day was going.

Once dinner was over, Donald informed me he was leaving for the evening to meet up with some friends for a round of rugby. After seeing him out, I excused myself to my room, claiming tiredness as I bid the staff goodnight. It wasn't until I was safely behind closed doors did I allowed my smile to reappear as images of the beautiful detective ran through my head unhindered. Her cheeky grin and vibrant green eyes causing my body to swoon.

Once I made it to the privacy of my room, I pressed my hands to my stomach and took a deep breath in an attempt to try and calm myself as I leaned back against my bedroom door. I was a tangle of both nerves and excitement and I could feel the energy coursing through my veins, through my body with each beat of my steady heart. It had been nearly four hours since Willow departed and I was starting to feel the pain in my cheeks from smiling so hard. This shielded, seemingly tough as nail cop, bestowed upon me the sweetest of gifts; her name.

_Willow._

Her name was as beautiful as she was. I couldn't help but to repeat it over and over again, to myself and out loud. I loved the way it sounded; her name rolling off my tongue like a marble rolling around the floor as it reverberated like a melody in my ear. The way the syllables of her name formed on my tongue tasted like sweet lemonade on a hot, sunny day, quenching a thirst I didn't even know I had. It was like nothing could be better than her name. It was so unique, and I had never heard of a name like hers, a name like Willow. Each time I uttered it, my voice became raspier as it passed my vocal cords, sending shivers dancing up my spine. I couldn't get the detective out of my head, she was beautiful, and her name was a piece of art.

For hours afterwards, I had laid in bed motionless, staring at the shadows dancing across my ceiling as the moon shifted through the sky; my thoughts on nothing else but her. As my body grew weary, I desperately tried to fall asleep, but images of her grinning face emerged behind closed eyes, spurring on new thoughts and fantasies. The last thing I recall before sleep finally overtook me was sighing deeply as I tried to cast the images aside, reprimanding myself for my childish behavior.

Now, hours later, in the crest of daybreak, her beautiful face was still all that filled my mind as I hid under my comforter, waiting for what felt like an eternity for the thunderstorm to pass. Once the steady downpour of water fizzled out to a slow humdrum beat against the window, I pulled the comforter down, cool air nipping at my exposed flesh. It wasn't until I took a deep breath in, smelling the sweet scent of vanilla and cinnamon that had wafted up the staircase from the kitchen, filling the air of the house, did I begrudgingly pull myself completely out of bed.

_It's too early to be awake_.

Blearily, I walked across the plush carpet to my vanity, pulling my sleepjacket off the back of the chair. As I slipped my arms through the sleeves of the garment, I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror. My hand went to my head instantaneously, my fingers pulling on my hair as they wove through. I sighed and ran my fingers downward, brushing over my puffy eyelids. _I looked ghastly_. My lack of sleep and constant tossing and turning had left me in an utter state of disheveled.

Normally, I would have been in a rush to comb out the matted mess; the thought of someone stopping by unannounced and seeing me without my face made always had me in a state of worry. But after a night of fitful sleep, just the thought of spending hours making myself presentable seemed exhausting and I was already truly tired. Forgoing my normal routine primping and fussing over my long locks, I decided to pull my hair up on top of my head in a halfhearted attempt to make myself semi presentable before leaving my living quarters. With one last look in the mirror, intent on coming back later to doll up, I left my room, heading directly to the formal living room to warm my chilled body by the fire.

I reached the first floor landing moments later and found Buffy in the lounge; the fireplace already roaring with several burning logs. She was standing in front of the large picture window to the left of the room that overlooked the lawn and gardens, her back to the doorway where I stood. The early morning sunlight fell in bright beams through the window, making her golden hair, piled delicately on her head, shimmer like spun sugar. She had her arms crossed over her chest, hugging herself as she gazed absently into the courtyard, and my feet started toward her.

Quietly, I called out to her so as not to startle her with my presence, but even my mere whisper seemed to have surprised her. Spinning around, her eyes wide in fright, she glanced me over before smiling sheepishly.

"Thunderstorm kept you awake too?" I ventured as I took in her seemingly similar state of appearance. She had bags under her eye and her facial expression was cadaver-like, not just sagged but lacking its usual liveliness completely, as if she had left her spirit snuggling under the duvet.

She nodded her head once before ever so slowly turning back to the window. The faraway look that had glazed over her eyes was no longer present. In its wake was quiet contemplation. She stood like that for a moment longer, her eyelids drooped and there was a slight lolling to her head, drunk with fatigue.

"It's starting to snow again," she finally said, her eyes fixated on the white powder gracing the driveway. Turning back toward me, her arms unclasping as a small smile graced her lips, "I'm going to go fix some coffee. I'll have Liam start breakfast and come retrieve you when it's ready."

Before I had a chance to speak, she was gone. I stared through the doorway at her retreating form until she was out of sight before making myself comfortable on the chase in front of the fireplace. The couch was a fabric the hue of buoyant sea waves and I sat there as prim as any sailing boat on a fine day as I basked in the warmth of the room. Upon those rolling cushions the early morning birdsong outside the window became my lullaby, the gentle cooing luring me back toward sleep. I'm not sure how long I rested there, the fire warming my chilled bones as sweet daydreams blossomed like a spring flower, my brain weaving reality and an array of fantasies.

I was stirred from my light sleep by the sound of a car door slamming. I heard Willow before I saw her, her voice echoing through the foyer as she spoke with Buffy, asking how her morning was going. I listened intently as two pairs of shoes clicked against the hardwood floor, the sound increasing in intensity as they neared the living room, echoing off the vaulted ceilings, followed quickly by the sound of Buffy's voice announcing Willow's presence. Automatically, my eyelids tried to flutter open but were met with resistance. As I fought against the lure of the sandman, I peered through slitted eyes, taking in her appearance; a tan pin striped suit accentuated with a black rimmed fedora. I couldn't help but smile. She was stunning. I couldn't deny it; I was attracted to her with the kind of heady trance that brings a butterfly to nectar.

She smiles back at me and I feel my heart seism, the sudden rush of blood pounding through my ears so deafening that I barely make out an apology. "I'm sorry for my earliness; I hope I'm not disturbing you," she said apologetically as she stepped further into the room, "I can come back a little later if I am."

"Nonsense," I replied quickly before gesturing to the couch adjacent to me. "Come sit with me by the fire."

Shockingly, she complies without a word of rebuttal. As she ungraciously sits down on the settee, a comfortable silence washes over us, the popping of sap on the logs in the fireplace filling the air. Content in my surroundings, I feel the lure of sleep pulling at me once more and I shift my position on the chase, adjusting my sleep attire around my legs as I settle comfortably into the cushions.

"Tara-Rose, I was planning on going to La Beau today to speak with your employees. Is there anyone in particular you can think of that I should speak with? Anyone who might be able to help with the investigation."

Languidly, I turned my neck to look at her, fighting with my eyelids once more to remain open. Sheepishly, I give her an apologetic smile. I was near sleep when she spoke, her low voice startling me slightly.

"You should speak with our foreman, Ethan Rayne," I replied as I absentmindedly fiddled with the fabric of my nightgown. "He's been with us since my father first started the company and knows everything that goes on inside the factory."

"Is he in charge of all the workers?" she asked, her head tilting to the side slightly, reminding me of our neighbors Cocker Spaniel.

"Just the assembly line," I inform her as I rotate my body, swinging my legs graciously to the floor. "My father and I oversaw sales and the marketing team." It wasn't until then that I remembered my current state of undress and lack of makeup, a flush of embarrassment coursing through me.

Standing, I pick up my sleepjacket that I had discarded across the arm of the settee and slip it back on. Hastily, I tie the sash around my waist in an attempt to protect what little modesty I had left before walking toward the buffet table. Pulling open one of the drawers, I pushed aside several candles in search of a spare key I had stowed away. Locating the key, I shut the drawer and walk back toward Willow who had a look of curiosity on her pensive face.

Sitting down on the unoccupied cushion next to her, brazenly, I reach for her hand nearest me. As my fingers come in contact with her silken smooth flesh, I slowly rotate our hands so that her palm is position upward. "So you can come and go from the factory as you please," I explain as I place the key into her palm and close our interlinked fingers around it.

I only meant to give her the key, but as soon as my hand clasped hers, all my willpower to let her go washed away. Her touch was electrifying, sending a jolt up my arm, straight to my heart. I felt shameful for prolonging the contact – it was a tease and I knew it. Detective Rosenberg just smiled, seeming not to notice my predicament or in the very least, acting as if she didn't.

"Willow," her name rips from my mouth like an orchard going bloom. My lips pull up into a smile as I recalled the previous evening and how I came to know it. Delicately, I trace my thumb in small circles on the back of her hand, my voice low "I didn't think I would ever learn your real name."

"I didn't think I'd ever tell you," she replied after a moment's hesitation, her eyes never wavering from mine.

I feel my breathing deepening as I maintain gazing into her tantalizingly green eyes, my tone throaty, "why did you then?"

"I guess I got tired," she replied back quickly, her own voice lowering in depth to match mine.

I feel a fluttering in my chest, the sensation odd but inviting. "Tired of what?" I whisper out brazenly as I shift my gaze to her lap where our hands lay clasped together.

I feel the cushion under us shift and my throat constricts on a lungful of air as I feel her cotton clad knee brush against my bare skin. The fluttering turns to a pounding as I'm suddenly overrun with an even stronger desire to touch her. I bite my bottom lip and look up at her through half lidded eyes as I think of how easy it would be to slide my hand off of hers and grasp her thigh. I'm pulled from my musing at the sound of her voice; shallow and uncertain.

"Hiding," she simply replied. The light was dim in the room but I still saw her blush. It was endearing, her eyes were wide, cheeks red, and lips were parted. She cleared her throat to regain her composure, a wasted effort, and then softly smiled at me.

Keeping our knees in contact, I pivot at the waist as I lean toward her, aching to get closer. "You don't ever have to hide from me," I reply sensually as my lips graze a trail across her jaw, stopping millimeters away from her ear, "Willow."

As her name left my lips, I feel her shudder more than see it; our entwined hands vibrating. Slowly, I pull my lips away from her ear, turning my head ever so slightly as I prepare to say her name again. Before I can gather the syllables on my tongue to formulate her name, a loud rapping on the doorframe engulfed the desolate air around us, snapping me back to reality.

Springing backward, I release Willow's hand as a furious blush erupted from under my sleep attire. Embarrassed, I refuse to make eye contact with the newcomer, instead focusing my attention on the crackling wood inside the fireplace, entranced by the sparks.

"Miss. Tara-Rose, breakfast is ready." I grimace when I hear Buffy's chipper voice. I don't have to look at her to know she's smiling. I just groan further, my hand rising to cover my mouth as she asks Willow if she'll be staying in a way that left little to the imagination. "Detective, will you be eating with Miss. Tara-Rose?

I feel Willow looking at me but I can't bring myself to make eye contact. Mortified by my actions, I retain focus on the fire's flickering embers. It's not long before the cushion shifts under our weight once more and I hear the distinct sounds of Willow getting to her feet.

"No, I don't think I will be," she said politely. "But if Donald's here, I'd like to speak with him."

"I'm afraid to inform you that Mr. Donald left shortly before your arrival to go see his doctor."

Fear washed over my body instantly. "Doctor?" I ask panic-stricken, my attention pulled from the fireplace to stare questioningly at Buffy. "Is he alright?"

"He's fine Miss. Tara-Rose." She reassured quickly, her comforting smile putting me at ease slightly. "The poor boy broke a few fingers playing rugby. I phoned Dr. Giles last night. He wanted Mr. Donald to come to his office first thing in the morning to be splinted."

I am relieved to hear that Donald is okay but I can't help to think of what would happen if I was to lose him too. Instinctively, my bottom lip began to tremble as water filled my eyes. Silently, grief stricken, I watch as Willow walked out of the living room, never turning to bid her goodbyes. A part of me is relieved that she wouldn't be present to witness me have another fit but a larger part of me wished she would have stayed. To hold me the way she had the other day. To reassure me that everything would be okay.

I sighed heavily. The heaving breath did not make me feel better the way it usually did, so I tried again.

_Sigh. _

It didn't work.

I rolled my eyes at my foolishness. _When did I turn into such a pathetic sap?_


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

WPV

I found myself standing outside the Maclay estate rather early the next morning. Thoughts of the blonde had plagued me throughout the night; her radiant smile haunting my dreams and driving me out of bed at an ungodly hour. In a handful of days, she somehow managed to purchase real estate in my state of unconsciousness. I should have denied the job as soon as she told me her name. Nothing good ever came from falling for your client.

I must have readjusted my tie several times, making sure it sat perfectly against my chest before I knocked on the luminous door. Just like every time prior, Buffy answered punctually, a radiating smile plastered on her face as she swung the door open in greeting. Without waiting for an invite, I stepped over the threshold, pulling my fedora off in the process, brushing off the snow that had accumulated.

"Buffy," I said as I nodded my head at her, "how's your morning going?"

"Quite well, Miss Rosenberg, thank you for asking," she replied politely as she helped me out of my overcoat. "How about yourself?"

I debated about telling her the truth. Something about the petite blonde made me feel as if I could confide in her. I opened my mouth to tell her of my predicament but snapped it shut at the last moment. Instead, I copied her sentiment. "Quite well."

This seemed to appease her as she shot me a quick smile before gesturing to the formal living room with a broad sweep of her hand. Wordlessly I followed behind her. As we reached the doublewide, arched doorframe, Buffy cleared her throat slightly as to not startle Tara-Rose who was slumbering by the fireplace. She was still in her sleep attire and her face was bare of all that make-up crap.

"Miss. Tara-Rose, Detective Rosenberg is here."

She opened her eyes slowly, her eyelash rising like velvet theater curtains, making me weak in my knees. As our eyes lock, she relaxed the fastener on her lips and smiled in my direction. A new sense of dread suddenly bestowed upon me as I took in her features: pure and imperfect, just the way that God intended. I felt myself falling. This woman before me, the one who had the audacity to be beautiful even on days when everything around her was ugly had knocked me to the ground and I was sure my elbows had scars showing the tall-tale sign of me hitting hard.

I did my best to clear my throat and push away my desire. Smiling back at her, I stepped further into the room. "I'm sorry for my earliness; I hope I'm not disturbing you," I said apologetically, "I can come back a little later if I am."

"Nonsense," she replied as she waved me off. "Come sit with me by the fire."

Obediently, I sat down on the loveseat adjacent to her. We sat quietly for several moments until the sound of her shifting her position on the settee, her feet coming up to rest alongside her, penetrated the air. As she repositioned her legs, her night dress rose up her thigh and I got a full eyes view of silky smooth flesh.

Painstakingly, I tore my eyes away from her luscious gams, deciding that we sat in silence long enough. "Tara-Rose, I was planning on going to La Beau today to speak with your employees. Is there anyone in particular you can think of that I should speak with? Anyone who might be able to help with the investigation."

Lazily, she tore her eyes away from the fire to look at me, her eyelids heavy, indicating that she had been on the verge of falling back to sleep. She smiled at me apologetically, as if she had forgotten I was there. "You should speak with our foreman, Ethan Rayne." She said calmly as she traced her finger over the peach silk, toying with the fabric. "He's been with us since my father first started the company and knows everything that goes on inside the factory."

"Is he in charge of all the workers?" I ask as I make a mental note to speak with the foreman.

"Just the assembly line," she replied as she shifted her position once more, swinging her feet to the floor gracefully as she stood up from the couch. "My father and I oversaw sales and the marketing team."

I watch her in complete rapture as she slinked into her bedjacket, the light pink complementing her complexion. Tying the sash loosely around her waist, she walked toward an oak, barley twist buffet and pulled one of the drawers open, my eyes following her every movement. Before I had the chance to ask her what it was she was looking for, Tara closed the drawer and turned back toward the couches.

Sitting down on the unoccupied cushion next to me, she reached for my hand. Silently, she rotated my wrist and placed an object into my palm.

"So you can come and go from the factory as you please," she indicated, her fingers curling my own over a cool piece of metal.

My gaze flickered from her twinkling blue eyes down to our entwined hands and then back up again. My skin tingled from where she clasped it, a burning prickle ebbing into my flesh, contrasting starkly against the metal key resting in my palm. She held on to my hand longer than what was considered socially acceptable but I wasn't complaining; I wanted her touch on me. All over me.

"Willow," my name comes out of her mouth like a stuttering soliloquy. Almost as if she's been practicing how to master the syllables of my name in the dark. Perfecting it in the solitude of her room.

My heart clenched. _I have never heard my name sound so appealing_.

"I didn't think I would ever learn your real name," she finally said, whispering delicately as her thumb traced circles on the back of my hand.

"I didn't think I'd ever tell you," I replied honestly as I maintained eye contact, unwilling to look down at our hands and give her the satisfaction of knowing how much her touch was affecting me.

"Why did you then?" Her tone has become husky, her penetrating gaze probing a quick response.

"I guess I got tired."

"Tired of what?" Tara-Rose asked as she anchored her attention on my lap where our hands lay clasped together.

I feel myself shifting, my body moving closer to hers as our knees lightly brush. "Hiding…" My tongue instantly freezes in my mouth as her lashes swept up; her teeth nibbling on her bottom lip. It wasn't until I felt a burning sensation in my chest did I realize that I had been holding my breath. Shakily, I exhaled only to gasp for air once more when she leaned closer.

"You don't ever have to hide from me," she said softly as her unpainted lips ever so slightly grazed my jaw; her hot breath tickling my ear as she spoke, "Willow. "

As a shiver ran down my spine, her words invoking a stampede in my chest, a loud rapping on the doorframe engulfed the living room. Our eyes diverted as we sprung apart, our hands unclasping instantly as dueling blushes crept up our necks. Sheepishly, I looked over my shoulder to see Buffy standing in the middle of the doorway, a cheeky smile on her lips.

"Miss. Tara-Rose, breakfast is ready," she replied professionally. "Detective, will you be eating with Miss. Tara-Rose?"

I chanced a look out of the corner of my eye at Tara-Rose, noticing that she was staring off at the fireplace, refusing to make eye contact with Buffy. Her embarrassment was evident in her posture and the way she held her hand against her face.

"No, I don't think I will be," I replied respectfully as I stood up from the couch, straightening out my tie in the process. "But if Donald's here, I'd like to speak with him."

"I'm afraid to inform you that Mr. Donald left shortly before your arrival to go see his doctor."

"Doctor?" Tara asked, her attention pulled from the fireplace to stare questioningly at the maid. "Is he alright?"

"He's fine Miss. Tara-Rose." Buffy interjected quickly as she shot her boss a reassuring smile. "The poor boy broke a few fingers playing rugby. I phoned Dr. Giles last night. He wanted Mr. Donald to come to his office first thing in the morning to be splinted."

I bit the inside of my lip at the mention of my God Father's name. I've heard it now twice in as many days and each time a feeling of resentment bore deep into my heart. Not wanting to dwell on the subject I move away from the couch, from Tara-Rose and approached the doorway to the foyer.

"Is Alexander here?" I ask as I step in front of Buffy.

"In the kitchen," she said as she sidestepped to allow me to pass.

Without looking back, I exit the formal living room. As I rounded the corner into the kitchen, I caught sight of Liam sitting at the breakfast nook with his head bowed, Alexander hunched over him menacingly; one hand poised on the back of the chair while the other rested flat on the table. Clearing my throat, I entered the room, unsurprised when Alexander's glowering eyes traveled to mine.

"Alexander, I would like to speak with you," I state matter-of-factly as I stood my ground in front of him. "We can speak while driving to La Beau Cosmetics."

I didn't give him an opportunity to argue as I spun on my heels and exited the room, walking briskly to the hall closet where Buffy had stowed my overcoat.

To my dismay, the ride to La Beau ended up being uneventful. Alexander proved to be more cooperative then I had originally anticipated. He came clean almost instantly about his short lived tryst with his former boss's daughter. Stating to me that they were nothing more than very close friends and he would do anything to protect her. His tone left nothing to be deciphered. The veiled threat came across loud and clear.

My visit to the factory was no different. Ethan Rayne, a tall wisp of a man with an inferiority complex begrudgingly showed me around the compound. To my surprise he left nothing out. We stopped at every office and spoke with every employee, sometimes twice. Gruff, his patience wearing thin from having been away from the assembly line for the better part of the day, he finally showed me to Mr. Maclay's office, our last stop.

Once inside the office, I waved off the foreman, indicating I no longer needed his assistance. As soon as he departed, I closed myself inside of the room, deeply inhaling the scent of stale perfume and cedar. Wrinkling up my nose at the odor, I marched over to the desk positioned strategically in the center of the room.

Laid bare on the polish wood was a calendar with shaky handwritten appointments scheduled in. I briefly scanned the dates; nothing of importance popping out until I got to the day before Mr. Maclay's death. There, in scribbled cursive penmanship, a six o'clock appointment at Wallabout Bay. Ripping the sheet free from the calendar, I shoved the paper into my pocket.

Rifling through the rest of his desk, I came across a dossier tucked under a pile of voicemail receipts. Pulling the folder free, I flipped it open to find an ill-conceived sketch of a building. The name Best Western International, Inc., printed in big letters over the drawing. Attached was a voided check for the sum of twenty three thousand dollars, Mr. Maclay's signature scribbled out on the bottom right hand side and the name of the intended recipient left blank. Intrigued, I browsed through the booklet, quickly realizing that someone had offered a business investment opportunity to Mr. Maclay which he had apparently backed out of. By what I was able to decipher, if Mr. Maclay had gone through with this deal, he stood to make millions, or potentially lose everything.

Collecting the dossier as potential evidence, I took one last look around the room before exiting. Once outside, I shot Alexander a look informing him I wasn't in the mood to hear his voice. Climbing into the backseat of the limo I barked out the next address and tell him to put a step on it. I needed to find my snitch. She was always good for reliable Intel, granted you had the cabbage to pay for it.

When I finally caught up with my informant, she was drinking beer with an alcoholic bulldog dubbed Fireball Reynolds in a ramshackle joint just outside Brooklyn, drinking the heart right out of a fine winter afternoon. I wasn't surprised to see him here with her, crouched over a small wooden table littered with bottles, one meaty paw wrapped around a beer and the other around her wrist. The drunk was well known around these parts, often for hiring women of the night to keep him company … and for beating them too. I always worried for her safety, more so tonight after seeing her companion. Caleb Reynolds was a man with a mean streak; an uncontrollable rage that burned deep within him which he frequently took out on the women he kept company with, leaving them disfigured. This man was the epitome of evil, filled with so many demons that not even a priest could save him.

I caught her eye as soon as I walked through the door, a noticeable huff leaving her lips as I crossed the bar to her table. Positioning myself between her and the kerb-crawler, I inform her that we need to speak.

"Piss off flatfoot," Caleb snarled, his hold on her wrist tightening significantly, bruising the tender flesh. "I paid for her through the evening."

Holding in my own rage, I pulled my wallet from the inside of my coat, quickly pulling out a couple of bills. Slamming the two dollars down on the table, I looked at the misogynist menacingly, daring him to protest. "Beat it. I need to borrow the lady for a moment; your next few rounds are on me."

Seething, his face reddened like an over-ripe tomato as he glared me down. I could tell he was having an internal war with himself: refuse out of indignation or concede and take the money. The latter finally won as he released his grip from bruised flesh to pocket the cash.

_Atta boy Caleb._

"You know what he'll do when he comes back?" the share crop hissed through her teeth as she hitched a thumb over her shoulder. "Beat my teeth out, then kick me in the stomach for mumbling."

"Am I being polite or can I say what I want?" I reply snidely as I arched an eyebrow.

"I'm afraid I don't like your manner," she said to me, using the edge of her voice, letting me know she wasn't in the mood for a lecture.

"I've had complaints about it," I said nonchalantly with a soft shrug of my shoulders, both my tone and mood indifferent, "but nothing seems to do any good."

"What do you want, Red?" she finally asked, her voice hollow; sadness softening her nasal twang, "I'm busy."

"I'm not staying long," I replied, as I pulled the sheet of calendar paper out of my breast pocket. Pointing to the date in question, I search out her haunted hazel eyes, "This here says James Maclay had an appointment down by Wallabout Bay the evening before he died; you happen to see him that night?"

"I don't know," she replied flippantly as she tossed her long chocolate locks over one shoulder, giving me a clear view of the long, white, serrated scar that ran the length of her neck. "But, fifty dollars buys a lot of information in my circle."

"Five dollars buys a lot in your circle," I shot back mockingly, even as my hand reached for my wallet. I pull out several bills, laying one on the table in front of her. "Lay it on me, doll."

"I saw your guy," she proclaimed as she snatched up the Lincoln, holding it at eye level, scrutinizing it before burying the bill deep into her bustier, "early Thursday night down by the Navy yard, around seven."

"Was he alone?"

"No, he was talking to a Ferry captain."

Rolling my eyes skyward, I hand her another dollar, wordlessly telling her to continue.

"They were arguing about something; a shipment that never arrived. Maclay was accusing the man of stealing and threatened to call Johnny law."

"You get a good look at this Ferry Captain?" I asked, intrigued by this new tidbit of information. I anxiously stood there, waiting for her to continue. When she wasn't forthcoming with any more information, I begrudgingly slapped another dollar bill down onto the table's sticky surface.

"Yeah, I got a good look at him," she admitted as she tucked away the newly acquired loot. "He was a short, beefy man with hardly any neck ... or hair. A real chrome-dome."

Anything else?"

"He came into Madams afterward, cursing Maclay's name, saying he would get even."

"You get a name?"

This game of twenty questions was starting to grate on my nerves.

"Russell," she snatched the last bill out of my hand, shoving it between her breasts along with the others before I could protest. "Russell Snyder."

The name wasn't ringing any bells. Either Snyder was an altar boy or he wasn't from around these parts. Either way, I made a mental note to track him down.

"Thanks for your help, doll," I say as I grab her cheek, pinching it briskly. "Try to stay out of trouble, will ya?"

I catch her eyes flicker momentarily over to the bar where Caleb's consuming rum like its water, her expression bleak. I wanted to help her, I did. But she chose this life for herself years ago. She knew the risks better than anyone. There was nothing I could do for her except occasionally throw her a few bucks to stay off the streets for a night. It was ironic, really. Cordelia Chase, my old high school tormentor; a former bathing beauty turned trick. This cocotte was the closest thing to a friend I had in this god forsaken city.

_That's life though. Whichever way you turn, fate sticks out a foot to trip you._


	9. Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

TPOV

The vanity in my room held the top-of-the-line Le Beau Cosmetics. Spritzing myself with a spray of perfume, I checked the mirror one last time. Grabbing my beaded purse from my dresser, I stopped by Donald's room to get the tuxedo I had found toward the back of his closet; one he had worn to our cousin Beth's wedding a few years back. Thankfully, when Donald had been around sixteen, he was still relatively lean and hadn't yet hit his growth spirt. Holding onto the banister, I hurried down the grand staircase, nearly running into Buffy at the bottom of the steps.

"Miss Tara-Rose! You look beautiful, as always. Blue truly is your color!" she took me in, holding my hand as she twirled me around like a ballerina. Taking both of my hands in hers, she looked at me and said, "Your father would be proud sweetheart. Please enjoy yourself tonight.

I did my best to hold back my tears, I felt like all I had been doing the past week was crying. Thankfully for me, I cried most of my tears during Willow's visit earlier this week; I'm sure she didn't feel as fortunate to have seen them as I was to having a comforting shoulder while they were shed.

"Thank you so much for your kind words, Buffy. I hope you and Liam enjoy your night off. Stay out of trouble." I gave her a knowing wink. I was quite certain that something had been going on between Buffy and Liam for some time now. They didn't talk about it much but the looks they gave each other were loving and it made me yearn for something like that in my life.

Looking down at my hand, I smiled like a fool at the piece of notepad paper resting in my palm; the same foolish smile that graced my lips every day this week since the Detective told me her name. _Willow._ Her name was as beautiful as she is. Commotion from the doorway broke me from my thoughts. I watched as Alexander walked through the foyer and I handed him the slip of paper where Willow had written her address in surprisingly elegant handwriting. Pocketing the slip of paper, he then helped me put on my floor length white Ermine coat and we headed out the front door as I waved goodbye to Buffy over my shoulder.

My mind danced with thoughts on the ride to Willow's place and Alexander seemed to understand that I'd prefer the radio to conversation. Willow had been at the house quite often in the past week, talking with all of the staff, although it didn't seem as though she was any closer to finding any concreate leads. She did suggest that she'd found some things that she would research further but nothing had panned out thus far and would dig further. I was getting used to seeing her around the house and she seemed to be forming a connection with the staff, mainly Buffy. _And me_.

Thoughts drifted to the line of reporters we would face when walking into the Gala and how I would handle the questions about Willow. I knew that there would be whispers about me being out so soon after my father's death and whether I had time to properly mourn. Willow's presence only complicated matters, a mysterious 'man' accompanying me to a highly prestigious event: Who was he? How was I involved with him? Why hadn't he been seen with me prior to Daddy's death? I figured that I would put a positive spin on this, tell the reporters that I knew it was best as the new CEO of Le Beau to continue on as my father would have. I hoped that they hailed me as a woman with good business sense. As for the questions regarding Willow, that was a bit trickier. I figured I'd try to be as vague as possible, giving them only bits and pieces of information. Basically, I planned on lying. They didn't need to know the real reason to our being at the Gala and they certainly didn't need to know of Willow's profession … or gender. That last part had me worried though; I wasn't sure how Willow planned on passing herself off as a man when she had such delicate elfish features.

The buildings in Willow's neighborhood looked a bit run down and I realized I didn't really know what type of home a Detective would live in. Alexander stopped the car in front of a brown brick building and I saw him rechecking the scrap of paper where Willow had written the address.

"Tara-Rose, I think this is it. Can I walk you in?" he asked, hesitation in his voice. I could tell why. It wasn't a nice area of the city and he was nervous about bringing me here. I thought about it for a moment while Alexander scanned the area, I assumed to make sure that everything was safe before he allowed me to exit the car.

"You can walk me into the front hallway, Alexander. Then perhaps circle the block a few times to keep the car warm until we are ready to head to the Gala?" I asked as he assisted me out of the car and carried the tuxedo over his arm. He gripped my arm tightly, as if he were my personal bodyguard.

We walked up the few steps to a stoop and into the vestibule at the top. He handed me the tuxedo and stood at the front of the stairs, watching me walk up the stairwell to the first landing. Passing doors one and two, I stopped and knocked on the door marked three. Hearing her footsteps coming towards the door, I looked over to where Alexander stood, looking apprehensive and a bit perturbed at the thought of leaving me there. I shooed him away with a wave of my hand, insisting I was fine.

Door three swung open and Willow was suddenly in front of me, leaning her arm over her head on the thin wood of the door. Her slacks rod low on her narrow hips and she wore nothing on her torso but a sleeveless undershirt, her pert breast peeking through the thin transparent material. My mouth went dry and my eyes took in her muscular bare arms, erect nipples and lazy grin. Her arm snaked out and pulled me into the room as she kicked the door closed behind us. Shaking my head, I looked around the barren studio apartment that doubled as her office. The first thing my mind registered was there was no bed. Blushing, I shook my head at the thought, trying to shake the dirty thoughts right out of my mind. I handed the tuxedo to Willow and she hung it on the screen that separated the room in two, looking at me questioningly. I went to remove my coat but she shook her head, explaining that the room was a bit cold.

"Can I interest you in the one cent tour?" she smirked at me as I looked around. She took one step to the desk. "This is the office." She took a few steps toward the back of the apartment, jerking her chin to the left, "Kitchen." Jerked her chin to the right toward the small door, "John." She walked a few steps to the right and hit the wall. "Bed." The Murphy bed fell to the ground with a thud. Her auburn eyebrows rose slightly and I saw the wicked gleam in her eye as she looked down at the bed and then back up at me. "Would you like to have a seat?"

There was an overstuffed chair near her desk and I quickly sat down in the seat, trying to look anywhere but at her and failing miserably. "I hope the tuxedo works well for you. If we had more time, I would have sent it over to our tailor but I think you're basically the same size as Donald was a few years ago so it probably won't be too much of a problem. But if it is, I can always try to-"

"Doll, relax. It will be fine. Why don't you help yourself to a drink?" she motioned to the bottle sitting on the desk next to my arm, while she moved to the other side of the screen, presumably to put on the tuxedo. I inhaled deeply, my heart fluttering, as I noticed the outline of her body through the divider pulling off her shirt. Spinning around from the screen, I looked around for a glass, in desperate need of a drink, but didn't see any sitting out.

"Willow, where can I find a glass?" I asked, calling over the screen. I don't know why I bothered raising my voice; it's not like the screen did anything to break up the noise from the room. She appeared next to me, shirt undone and working the cuff links through the left cuff. She sauntered over to the small kitchenette area, took two glasses out of the cabinet above the sink. She poured us each much more than two fingers worth of bourbon and I picked mine up from the desk.

"Cheers," she said, as she clinked her glass to mine and threw her head back, downing the entire glass in one shot. I took a tentative sip of mine, the alcohol burning its way down my throat, and I tried not to cough. My eyes filled up with tears yet again, and for the first time in a week, it wasn't because I was sad. Willow headed back to the other side of the screen and continued to get ready as I nursed the bourbon in my glass.

"So, here's the deal for tonight. We go, we mingle. Keep an ear to the ground and our eyes on the prize. You make your way around the room and do your thing. Mingle. Talk to the people you think might know something. Hell, talk to the people you think _wouldn't _know something. We'll meet up after a bit and compare notes." I heard her voice floating around the screen, like she was pacing while she was talking. I heard the door to the bathroom hit the wall and her rustling around in there.

"Damn it!" she cursed under her breath and I got up from where I was perched on the chair.

Rounding the screen, I saw her standing with the bathroom door open, struggling with the bow tie. "Can I help you with that?" I asked as I made my way over to where she was. I joined her in the tiny bathroom, placing myself between her and the mirror over the sink. Pushing her hands away from the tie, I started fussing with it, pulling one side down slightly lower than the other before crossing the longer side over the shorter one. "Donald's never really been good with bow ties so I got to practice with him when he was learning from Daddy." I finished and straightened the tie and gave her the once over. She had slicked her hair back with Brylcreem, dabbed her cheeks with Old Spice and tweezed her eyebrows to remove the slight arch reserved for women. I was amazed at how she changed her appearance enough to look like a sheik and a blush started to form once more. If I hadn't known better, I would have assumed she was a man, her androgynous appearance making her look like she was barely twenty one. "The tuxedo fits you well. You look really striking."

She started to protest and I put my finger to her lips. "You should accept a compliment as it is given to you." I felt the porcelain sink against the small of my back through my coat and the walls of the small bathroom seemed to be pushing us even closer together.

She stared at me hard for a moment and I felt her lips move against my fingertips. "Tara-Rose," her voice held a warning, her eyes clouding over a bit as she moved her face closer to mine.

"Why don't we stop talking, Willow?" I removed my fingers from her lips and ran them up the side of her jaw. My heart thudded wildly in my chest as I let go of all pretense. Tilting my head slightly, I willed for her to move her face closer to mine, to close the small gap that remained between our bodies.

A knock at the door broke us apart. Willow moved to run her hands through her hair until she remembered it was full of Brylcreem. Shoving them in the pockets of the tuxedo instead, she exited the bathroom and threw open the door to find Alexander standing in the doorway.

"Alexander," it came out half greeting, half growl as Willow strode over to the desk, picked up my glass of bourbon and finished it off.

"It's nearly 7:30, Miss Tara-Rose. We really should get you and Miss Rosenberg to the Gala," Alexander said as he looked down, knowing he had interrupted something.

"Thank you, Alexander. We'll be out in a moment."

He nodded once before giving Willow a hard look and turned to go wait in the car once more. Unsure of what to say, I collected my purse from the desk while Willow put on her overcoat in silence. She poured herself a bit more of Wild Turkey and threw it back before looking over at me.

"I suppose we better get a move on," she said, a little too casually.

"I suppose so," I replied.

We descended the steps from her apartment to the waiting car. The ride was brief and we were at the Knickerbocker Hotel before I had much time to think any further about what had nearly happened at Willow's or what was going to happen when we arrived. As I expected, there was a horde of reporters waiting near the front door. I stopped and spoke with them for a few moments, Willow standing by my side, holding my arm. Their questioned ranged from the standard about Le Beau, how I was dealing with my father's death, and who was escorting me this evening. Smiling at Willow, I held her gaze as I told them that I was with a family friend, one Will Rosenberg. That was all of the information that they were going to get from me and they seemed satisfied with what I provided them.

Once inside the venue, I shed my coat, revealing my navy blue gown. The rhinestone straps felt a bit heavy on my shoulders, a contradiction to the rest of the dress which was made of light satin material. It dipped low in the back and the material fell on my curves, hugging them and showing them off. My tailor had created a small bustle with the train of the dress, which I unhooked so that it fell to the floor in a cascade. Willow had been uncharacteristically quiet and I chalked it up to her lack of experience at a formal event or perhaps her observations of everything. Handing my coat to the man working at the coat check, I noticed that Willow was assessing me with her eyes in a way that was a bit unnerving as she removed her own overcoat. I asked worriedly, "Is everything all right? Do I look okay?" Looking down, I wondered if there was a pull in my dress or if I had gotten a stain that I failed to notice.

"It's a good thing you didn't take off your coat at my place," she said huskily as she circled around me.

Oh. _Oh._ Well, then. I flushed with pleasure.

"Doll! Tara-baby! Come here and give Rob a hug!" Robert Thurman came strutting toward where Willow and I were standing. Under my breath I whispered his name and status in the New York business world to Willow.

Rob approached and drew me close to his body. "Good to see you here, Tara-baby. We weren't sure you'd be here, what with your father's passing and all. God rest his soul. You holding up okay, kid?"

I smiled a smile that felt anything but real to me. Willow could see through the fakeness of it but it had Robert eating out of the palm of my hand. "I'm doing well, Rob, all things considered. Have you met Willo- Will Rosenberg?" the two 'men' flanked me on either side and I introduced Willow as the three of us entered the ballroom. Willow and Robert continued to make small talk while I visited the bar, getting beverages for the three of us. It wasn't customary for a lady to visit the bar, but I figured that since I'd be entering the man's world of business, it was important that these men see me as equal. While at the bar, I caught sight of William Pratt across the room. After giving the drinks to Willow and Robert and excusing myself, I made my way over to William.

William Pratt was a well-known character of questionable reputation in New York. He had more money than Rockefeller although it was only well known to a few how exactly he'd made his fortune. He was standing near a few of his cronies, smoking a cigar. His eyes lit up when he saw me making my way over to them, hips swaying seductively and pursing my lips.

"Hello Love! Didn't think I'd be seeing you out and about so soon. What are you doing keeping company with Red? Don't you know spending your time with a private dick is nearly as bad as keeping company with a copper … no matter how hot they may be." He said with a cheeky grin, obviously seeing right through Willow's disguise. "You ain't here to cause _trouble_, are you, sweet cheeks?" he grabbed me close to his body, his hands roaming all over mine. These men certainly were all _handsy_.

"William, you know I'm not a troublemaker. Rosenberg is nothing more than a family friend; she told me she would escort me after my father's passing.

"Not a troublemaker?" he questioned, his tone condescending. "Don't you think you're asking to be behind the eight ball coming to this venue with a dyke? People talk, love. And you hanging around a woman trying to pass herself off as a man makes for good gossip."

"Like I said, Rosenberg is nothing more than a family friend and simply here to escort me after my father's passing." He seemed to accept my statement; either that or he didn't want to debate on the topic any further. Either way, I was grateful.

"Your father was a good man, pet. Heart attack, they said? May he rest in peace!" he picked up the glass of scotch he had resting on the table next to him and raised it in a toast to my father. I saw Willow across the room, watching my interaction with William as she conversed with Rob.

"Yes, I do miss him quite a bit. It's been a very rough week," I lingered, not sure how I could possibly bait him into telling me if he knew something more about my father's passing. "It came as such a shock, being that he was in such good shape and good health."

"Well, we'll all miss him, that's for sure. He was a good man, always on the up and up. Never looked down at nobody. He will be missed." William wasn't giving me anything except empty compliments about my father. While it was all very nice to hear, it was a waste of my time. I thought about getting another drink or another graceful way to exit the conversation when he turned to the man on his right and asked if we had met.

"Parker Abrams, have you met Tara-Rose Maclay? She's taking over Le Beau Cosmetics." It wasn't necessary to tell him of my father, I could tell by Parker's expression that he already knew all about his death. _Bingo! Maybe this fool would give me something Willow could work with_.

"Very nice to meet you, Mr. Abrams." I put out my hand to shake his and he used the connection to pull me in close to his body.

"Very nice to meet _you_, Tara-Rose," he said as he took hold of my arm and started walking with me.

William looked over as we started to drift away from where he was standing. "Oh, and sweets? If you ever find out that something went down with his death that wasn't legit, you just let me know." He cocked his eyebrow upward as he squared his jaw. "You understand me?"

Parker steered me away from William and the rest of the men we were standing with. He continued leading me away, past the other Gala attendees. I was a bit alarmed, but I figured it was all in the name of detective work. "I was wondering how you are doing since the untimely passing of your father."

I felt a bit unnatural speaking about something like this with someone I didn't know. I gave the standard answer, "it's been a difficult week but I have close family and friends that are helping me through this tough time." Perhaps from my tone he could understand that I didn't consider _him_ to be included in that group of people.

His arm was slung over my shoulder and he ran a fat finger along the strap of my dress. "Ah yes, you have a younger brother, right? Donald?" I nodded my head.

He leaned in and his breath reeked of a mixture of alcohol and cheap cigar. I tried hard not to flinch away but moved my head back so that my face wasn't directly near his mouth. "Love the way you look in this dress," he breathed out, the same finger running along the side of my breast. "I think I'd love it even more if I could see you _out_ of this dress."

My eyes widened as he tried to wrap his body around mine. My fists clenched at my sides and I knew if I could get away with it, I would punch this man in his jewels like Donald had taught me. "Mr. Abrams, I'm not sure that this is entirely appropriate." I put my hand on his chest and playfully pushed him back, rather than using my full strength and knocking him over, which I probably could have done given how drunk he was. I tried to be cautious of his feelings and remove myself from the situation. This man had _nothing_ to offer me about my father and everything to offer me in the way of trouble. Not the heart trouble that came along with Willow but _real_ trouble. I finished my flute of champagne and decided to use it as an excuse to get another one and away from Parker.

"I think I'm going to go pick up another drink. Would you like anything from the bar? I could send a waiter over to assist you." Not that he needed it, since he smelled like he'd already emptied a bar of his own this evening.

"No thank you, sweet cheeks. But make sure that we catch up later, huh? I have a room right upstairs." He gave me a parting slap to the derriere as I walked toward the bar. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw him wink at me and I shuddered. Turning back toward the bar; Willow came into my line of vision, her face contorted into an angry scowl. Afraid I had done something wrong in my Girl Friday duties, I looked up at her, a bit frightened.

"Are you insane? How could you just go off with that guy? He looked like he was planning on dragging you off and having his way with you in some back alley!" Her eyes were murderous and I could feel the heat rolling of her without even touching her.

My drink forgotten, I looked for a diversion. The band had just started playing "I'm a Fool To Want You," the vocalist softly crooning into the microphone.

I grabbed her hand, imploring her with my eyes. "Don't worry about that joker. He was disgusting but I could handle him. Dance with me? _Please_?" I didn't even know if Willow enjoyed dancing but I was hoping this would be a good distraction and a chance to talk. Not that I had much information to share.

"Of course," she murmured, "I should have been the one to ask you." Picking up the train of my skirt, I found the small rhinestone bracelet my tailor had sewn to the inside of the material. Her hand rested on my waist as she led me to the center of the dance floor, before she took me into her arms.

Willow surprised me with her dancing, twirling me around the ballroom floor with ease, our movement seemingly choreographed. As we waltzed, I filled her in on Parker Abrams knowledge of my daddy's passing while she spoke of Robert's mentioning of Richard Wilkins falling out with my father; a business exchange gone awry.


	10. Chapter 10

CHAPTER 10

WPOV

"It's a good thing you didn't take off your coat at my place," I whispered near her ear as I circled her.

_Because if you had, we never would've made it out of my apartment_.

"Doll! Tara-baby! Come here and give Rob a hug!" I heard someone call above the noise of the crowd. Tara-Rose introduced him as Robert Thurman, a highly sought after accountant, before walking off toward the bar. Don't expect me to remember what Robert and I talked about after the first fifteen minutes, I only took notice of how Tara-Rose caught the eye of every fella in the room as they parted to make way for her. I nodded along and pretended to pay attention to what Rob was saying, and if I were half the Detective I claimed to be, I would have been giving him the third degree. But I couldn't tear my eyes away from Tara-Rose walking toward me with our drinks, a sexy confident smirk on her ruby red lips, looking as stunning as everyone expected her to. Still, apart from _that dress_, I liked her better natural.

_That dress_. My jaw clenched and a slow burn emerged in my stomach.

"Here you are, Will, your bourbon. And Robert," she said handing us our glasses. "Now if you'll excuse me for a moment, I see someone I must say hello to," she said and gave me a significant look. She turned to leave and I watched her weave her way gracefully through the crowded dance floor … and away from me.

_Goddamn that dress_. How does she expect me to do my job when I can't take my eyes off of her and _that goddamn dress_? I ground my teeth together as I realized that all my working plans for crashing this ritzy gig fell apart the moment her fur coat fell away from her.

Rob kept the chatter up without much encouragement from me, and I was able to keep an eye on Tara-Rose. She glided over to William Pratt, a well-known mob crony with whom I've had a few run-ins with; a real slime-ball. I watched her talk to him with a casual friendliness and saw nothing to raise my suspicion, but plenty to pique jealousy. Another lackey, whom I didn't recognize, staggered drunkenly over to her and pulled her away from William.

I felt as though my anger had turned my eyes black as I watched him drape his arm around her bare shoulder and trace the strap of her dress with a thick, greasy finger. Enraptured, I kept watching while my fury grew by the second. His finger continued going down her side and over to barely graze the side of her breast.

"Excuse me, Rob," I blurted out abruptly and left him mid-sentence, ditching my drink on a nearby table. I dodged the couples dancing as best I could, all while keeping my eyes on Tara-Rose and that bastard who was about to wish he hadn't shown up here tonight. Just as I was about to break it up, I saw him slap her ass and my chest rumbled with wrath.

"Are you insane?" I said, as I came up to her, "how could you just go off with that guy? He looked like he was planning on dragging you off and having his way with you in some back alley!" It took all my control to keep my voice at a reasonable volume.

"Don't worry about that joker. He was disgusting but I could handle him. Dance with me? Please?" she pleaded.

"Of course, I should have been the one to ask you," I said tensely and tried to let go of the anger that was making me ball my fists. I motioned for her to follow me to the middle of the dance floor and I turned to face her. With my left hand, I gently touched her elbow, and ran my finger down the length of her forearm, catching her wrist and pulling her toward me. I took a step closer to her and brought my other hand up behind her back and to her shoulder blades, gently trailing my hand down her back until it rested on her satin covered waist. She swallowed adorably and blinked at me.

We danced for a short while longer in silence, our feet gliding over the polished dance floor in rhythm with the music. It wasn't until the band started to sing Benny Goodman's "Taking a Chance on Love" did I speak.

"Did wearing that dress pay off?" I murmured near her ear as we began to sway slowly back and forth.

"How do you mean?" she asked, faying innocence.

_Really?_

"Did you learn anything?" I clarified.

"William offered his er… services should I need them in relation to Daddy's death," she glanced at me to see my reaction before continuing, her tone teasing. "He also had some pleasant things to say about you. How about yourself, did you learn anything?"

I gave her a halfhearted smile at the mention of William's distaste for me. It came with my line of work, aggravating criminals. "According to your buddy, Robert, your father had some sort of falling out with Richard Wilkins, some business deal gone awry. You know anything about that?"

"No, daddy never mentioned any of the sort," she said puzzled. "If he had planned on taking on a new business partner he would have informed me."

I took her words into consideration and mulled them over. Richard Wilkins was starting to look like a good suspect. Locating him would be on the top of my to-do list for the following day. "I'll check into it tomorrow," I told her. "Did William say anything else pertinent in regards to your father?"

"No," she replied with a terse shake of her head. "But Parker asked about Donald."

"Parker must be that prick who can't take a hint," I said through clenched teeth, still fired up over the man who had dragged her away. I felt her soft little finger on my lips.

"Hush, Willow. I could use a few laughs tonight. Help me have a good time? Please?" she pleaded and there wasn't anything I would have denied her when her blue eyes shined like that.

_See, Rosenberg? There's no way in hell you are getting out of this with your heart intact_.

I pulled her closer to me and nuzzled my nose in her hair, "How is it you always smell like roses?" I whispered and took a deep breath.

"It's perfume, silly. Le Beau of course," she said as I slowly twirled her around once and pulled her smoothly back to me, our feet falling easily into the dance steps.

"I underestimated you, Willow. I didn't expect you to be a dancer, or to clean up so nicely," she acknowledged with a delighted smile.

"I'm full of surprises, Tare," I purred, and stared directly into the blue depths of her eyes.

_I didn't expect you to be so lovely and so real_.

I brought my mouth to her ear, the tip of my nose grazing her cheek along the way. "Wanna get out of here?" I murmured, my detective duties entirely forgotten.

"The sooner the better," she whispered breathlessly.

In the limo, my fingers burned to touch her. After the days of getting to know each other better, the near kiss in my bathroom this evening and the torture of watching every man at the Gala undress her with their eyes, I couldn't ignore that I was in serious fucking trouble. If she showed the slightest interest in me, I'd have that dress off of her so fast it would make her gorgeous little head spin … and my golden rule about not sleeping with the clients would be sleeping with the fishes.

She seemed to hum beside me, emitting an electricity that drew me like a moth. It took a lot for me not to slide closer to her. Whenever the darkness of the car was illuminated by a passing vehicle or streetlight, our eyes would meet, the expectation clearly written in her pouty lips twisted into a knowing smirk.

I wanted to be good. I wanted to be professional. So I made a vow that I'd wait for her to make the first move, but I bargained with myself that at the first sign of a green light, I _would_ act.

The car pulled up to the estate and Alexander opened the door for us. As we entered the mansion, Buffy took our coats and every last vestige of my will power crumbled when I got another eyeful of that _dress_.

Buffy disappeared and Tara-Rose turned to me with hooded eyes.

"I'm going to change," she said with a playful shrug of her slender shoulders.

_Can I help you with that?_

What I actually said was, "Got any Wild Turkey?"

"I think so, in Daddy's office," she said, daintily clutching the banister and raised a perfectly arched eyebrow at me. "You know, upstairs."

_Green light if I've ever seen one._

I smiled, wickedly triumphant, and bowed to her, "After you," I said. She smiled and turned to lead the way.

I untied my bow tie and unbuttoned the top buttons of my shirt as I followed her up the stairs. I let my gaze fix upon her full, perfect ass accentuated by the sway of her hips as she moved. With each sway to the left, then languidly to the right, the burning in my lower stomach grew stronger. At the top of the landing she glanced at me over her shoulder.

"Be right back," she smiled and went towards her bedroom. After a moment the radio came on and I heard the horns of Glenn Miller's Orchestra trumpeting "Moonlight Serenade".

Once inside the office, I strode to the drink cart and took the cap off the first bottle I grabbed, giving it a whiff to determine its contents. Whiskey. Whatever. I didn't care that much, I just needed something wet. I grabbed two glasses, swiped the bottle off the cart and made my way to the doorway of her bedroom.

I leaned against the doorframe with my arm raised over my head. She didn't know I was standing there watching her. The room was dark; she hadn't bothered to turn on the light for some reason. The only light came from the soft glow of the radio dial. She stood in front of her vanity which was littered with make-up containers and perfume bottles. Her slender frame twisted as she tried to pull down the zipper of her gown, which appeared to be very conveniently stuck.

_I can help with that_.

I stealthily walked into the room and moved toward the nightstand on my right. The bed was adorned with a thick, white satin coverlet, the hint of a red satin sheet peeked out at me from under the stack of pillows that ran along the headboard. And the bed was _massive_.

_Good, plenty of room_.

I smiled in anticipation as I sat the glasses and whiskey bottle down on the dark wood of the nightstand, being careful not to clink them together. I didn't want her to know I was there yet. She was still fiddling with the zipper and growing impatient as she huffed a wisp of hair out of her eyes. I pulled my wallet from my pocket and set it down on the nightstand next to the glasses before walking toward her.

I came up close behind her and swept the heavy curtain of her hair off of her back and over her shoulder. I slid my fingertips luxuriously down her shoulder blade and towards her ribs until I felt the cold metal tab of the zipper. On the first try, I got it to slide open. My fingers sizzled as they pulled the zipper and skimmed her ribcage all the way down to her hip bone, until the zipper refused to go any further. My hand had no such constraints, and I let it rest on her pelvic bone, my fingers digging into her. I heard a low, long moan float out of her softly parted lips and she let her head fall back to rest on my chest. I brought my other hand around the front of her and found her soft cheek. With the back of my hand, I gently caressed her from her temple to her jaw. I bent my head and nuzzled my nose just below her ear and I was suddenly aware of her perfectly sculptured ass _right fucking there_, pressed so close to me that there was no way she wasn't aware of the heat rolling off of me.

"Tara," I moaned intending for it to be a question, asking her permission to go further, but instead it escaped my lips in the form of a strangled plea for her to put me out of my fucking misery.

She turned around and looked me dead in the eye. What I saw in her gaze was every green light in New York City.

I crushed her to me with a whimper. My mouth seized upon hers, she responded, eagerly engaging my tongue that wagged a war with hers. She reached up to run her hand through my hair and pulled my head back, breaking the kiss so she could pepper my jaw with hot little kisses. My eyes rolled back in my head and I knew I was a goner. Her hands slid the suspenders off of my shoulders then began eagerly unfastening the buttons of my shirt. I worked on my cufflinks, tossing them carelessly on the floor while I coaxed her backwards and into the wall. Once I had her cornered, I pulled away from her and brought my hands to the straps of her gown. I never broke my gaze from her eyes as I slowly guided the straps down and off the sweet sloping curve of her shoulder.

Her gown fell to the floor around her ankles in a pile of billowing satin and the sight it revealed _took my fucking breath away_.

She wore nothing but a pair of red satin panties trimmed in thick lace, and a matching garter belt that held her stockings up.

_That's it_.

I grabbed her, a hand on each cheek of her glorious ass, and lifted her up. She read my mind and wrapped her perfect legs around my waist, kissing me deeply. I kissed her back just as firmly and carried her to the vanity. I sat her down on top of it, making her perfume bottles clink together in the darkness as I ground my hips eagerly into her. She whimpered and her fingers tangled tightly in my hair. I repeated the motion with more insistence and continued to kiss her; unable to pull myself away even if I'd wanted to. I slid my hand firmly from her knee up to the top of her stocking. With a snap of my fingers, I quickly unhooked the two little straps that held the silk stocking in place and began to slowly roll it down her thigh to her ankle and off her feet. I began the process again on her other leg before I broke the kiss and moved my head between her legs, leaving a torturous trail of wet kisses down her thigh and around her knee. When I pulled the other stocking off, she leaned back, splaying her hands on the vanity and I heard the crashing of god knows what falling to the floor. She arched her back ever so slightly, jutting her tits out into the cool air, bestowing me with the gift of … _herself_.

I stood before her and bent my head over her chest. I ran the tip of my nose along her breast bone, stopping only to plant a single kiss right above her heart. Tentatively, I poked my tongue out and slowly trailed it down her left breast. The tip of my warm tongue skittered over her silky flesh, leaving a trail of saliva in its wake as it circled around her areola.

I felt her trembling hands pull my shirt off my shoulders and down my arms, dropping it on the floor next to us. I kicked off my shoes and pulled my socks off with my feet while her hands deftly moved from my chest and down to the cummerbund around my waist. She wrapped her luscious gams around me again, and pulled me impatiently and impossibly closer to her before reaching around my back and unfastening the cummerbund and tossing it onto the floor.

"Tare," I whispered into the darkness and my head tilted back in rapture. I felt her delicate little fingers slowly unfasten my pants. Both her hands came to rest on my hips for a moment before she guided the slacks off of me and onto the floor. She pushed against my chest and I reluctantly pulled away from her. She stood and kissed me fiercely, coaxing _me_ backwards until I felt the bed hit the back of my legs. I sat down expecting her to stop, but she didn't. So I laid back and waited with bated breath to see what my Tara wanted.

_Because I was too ready to give her anything she wanted. _


	11. Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

TPOV

Before Willow, I had only been with one lover, if you could call it that. I wasn't in love with him, nor did I think he was in love with me. Society seemed to have forced us together. Pressuring us to conform to stereotypical norms and fulfil our civic duties as man and woman. Wesley Windom Price had been sweet and kind and when we bedded, had been slow. Gentle. Considerate. Treating me as much as a lady in the bedroom as he had in the streets. It wasn't what I had anticipated sex to be.

It had been quick.

It had been mediocre.

_It had been boring._

Willow was not boring. Willow was anything _but_ boring. I knew this from the moment I saw her at the diner. Confirmed it while she held me as I shed tears for my father. Unable to deny it when she told me here name. And now, couldn't resist it when we danced at the Gala.

She was everywhere. Surrounding me and spurring me on with her hands, and body on every part of my body. In my life, I had never felt so wanted … or so overpowered before.

_I liked it. I wanted it. _

The slow burn that had been building between us the entire week had finally ignited. It was obvious we were both about to be consumed. Apparently the dress I had picked for the Gala called to her, making her abandon ship and jump toward the rocks. I felt powerful for being able to do that. In that moment, she was mine to control. Sure, most believed that they had the upper hand when it came to me. Not just in the bedroom or the workplace, but everywhere. I liked to make them feel like they did, like they were in control. But usually? I was the one manipulating things. The control was all mine and they did my bidding without even realizing. I had always had a keen understanding of my sexuality, my power over others. I used it to my advantage and made it work for me. My past paramour didn't know how to tame me and he sure as hell didn't make me feel like _this_. She brought out in me feelings that had lain dormant for so many years; my true feelings never allowed to be exposed for fear of rejection from my father and bringing shame to the family name. But she sparked something in me. Something I didn't want to keep hidden any further.

To bed this woman was dangerous. Our personalities were both strong and overpowering, two fighters battling to see who would come out on top. From the moment we locked eyes in the diner until we locked limbs on the dance floor, it was apparent that we would ultimately battle in the bedroom. We fought for control and I was winning and losing, all at the same time. She was a delicious challenge, one that made me want to work my best to make her mine. She didn't seem like she was one that would easily be owned, which made me want her that much more.

I pushed her back onto the bed and slid up and over her body. My eyes roamed over her and took in everything. Her dilated eyes, cocked smile, crimson cheeks and her ragged breathing. _I shall be on top_. I smirked down at her, leaning toward her face and tracing the line of her jaw with my tongue. She let out a low moan, grabbed my hips and started to twist her pelvis in an effort to flip me under her, but I had the upper hand. I encircled her wrists with my fingers and brought her hands up over her head, delighting in the shocked expression that danced across her face as I pinned her to the mattress. I trailed my hands lightly down her arms as my greedy fingers searched for the edge of her undershirt. Once found, I tugged at it, desperate to be rid of the thin layer of fabric separating us. I let her up just enough for me to work it up her torso and over her head, pressing myself against her the moment her skin was bare, relishing in the feeling of her naked chest pressing against mine. While I had my arms over her head, her mouth lowered and caught my left nipple. She nibbled lightly on it with her teeth before peppering it with kisses. Wanton moans escaped my mouth and, if I hadn't been so caught up in the moment, I might have blushed. I'd never felt like this before. Strong and uncontrollable desire rose from deep within me. Sensing a moment of weakness, she was able to flip us. She was looming over me, eyes smoldering with want.

"So you liked the dress, hmmm?" I asked as her eyes watched my lips move.

Leaning forward, her lips caught mine. "I liked the dress," she confirmed. "I like _you_, with or without the dress. Right now? Without."

Her hand snaked down between our intertwined bodies and in one fluid motion, she pushed off her underwear. My panties were the only thing between us and we both reached toward them, hands fighting hands, fighting satin, battling to remove the last shred of clothing separating us. She was victorious as she pushed the panties down over my long legs and flung them carelessly over her shoulder. Then, slowly, cat-like, she crawled up my body. Her mouth licked and sucked the smooth flesh of my legs as she moved up my body. Her nose grazed my knee, her hot breath tingling my already sensitive skin. Clutching her hair in my hands, I wove my fingers through the mess on top of her head, the Brylcreem not able to contain it. It made my hands slick, but I was still able to grab fistfuls of auburn hair.

I expected her to continue her way up my body, worshiping me with her mouth.

However, one thing I had learned in the time I'd spent with Willow Rosenberg was that I should never expect anything.

Worshiping me with her mouth, she did. The heat of her breath hovered between my legs and I tried, in vain, to pull her up my body with her hair. The Brylcreem made that next to impossible. No one had ever done this to me before. I felt her slowly shake her head, preventing me from pulling her away. The tousled, short tuffs of hair framing her cheeks lightly grazed the apex of my legs and made my entire body tremble in anticipation.

I felt her breath, hotly whispering around me. _In me_. My body shook as I struggled to hold on.

"Tare, you gotta let go of that control. Let _me_ rule _you_ for once. Like you've ruled me the past week. Like you ruled me tonight in that ridiculously sexy dress," she breathed out. Her tongue jutted out of her mouth and into the most intimate of places on my body. I gasped at the contact and, despite myself, felt my legs open wider to grant her access. Her hand ran under my left leg, thigh to ankle, and she moved it so it rested on her shoulder. _Oh!_ She them moved the same hand down and started petting me with her fingers as her mouth continued to do things that in the past might have made me blush just thinking about.

My mind grew fuzzy and my body was growing hotter and hotter. I pulsed with the waves of pleasure brought on by Willow's mouth. Her tongue moved like the waves on the shore, pushing forward and then receding, only to rush forward yet again a moment later. It was driving me wild. I grappled at her shoulders, finally able to pull her face up and off of me. I needed _her_. Not her mouth. _Her_. Tugging at her harder, she moved up the bed and laid her head on my pillows, next to me.

"Tare, I …"

I didn't want to hear what she had to say. I certainly didn't want her to think I was backing down from her offer. Reaching over, I placed my hand on her jaw, tracing small circles with my thumb. I watched her eyes dilate further, her forest green eyes shifting to a deep emerald green as another husky moan left her lips. With a devilish smirk, "Am I that much of a sure thing?"

Propping her head up on one hand and slowly running a finger down my side with the other, she smiled slowly. "Well, I do have you in your bed, don't I?"

"Technically speaking, I believe I have _you_ in _my_ bed." I smiled a soft smile while I looked down at her center, her lips slick with her own wetness.

"Can I …" I trailed off, not entirely sure how to ask. I hadn't done this before. But, I reasoned, tonight had been a night for firsts. I felt the color flood not only my cheeks, but my entire body. I noticed her watching me and my blush and it only resulted in more of a blush.

She knew exactly what I wanted to do without me finishing the thought. She was gentleman enough not to make me say it, but wanton enough to show me how. Taking my hand into hers, she brought them down to her mound, showing me what to do and hissing at the touch of my tentative fingers.

"What you do to me, Tare," she growled as she got up on her hands and knees, hovering over me.

She pulled my legs apart and positioned herself over my right thigh, running her hands down the length of them before wrapping my left leg around her hip. Grabbing my ass she pulled me toward her, our pelvis' touching, before positioning her hand between us and slowly pushed inside of me with a single finger. I gasped at the feeling; me consuming her, her consuming me. Joined together as one, we started to move. I could tell she was trying to go slowly, to allow my body some time to adjust to her.

I didn't want _slow_. All I ever knew was going slow and that's _not_ what we were about. It was laughable for us to even consider slow.

I narrowed my eyes and looked up at her. "You need to move faster."

"Always so fucking demanding," she admonished as she added a second finger, all the while moving at a faster, more frenzied pace. Her left hand was placed on the sides of my head and the bicep in her arm was taut as she held her upper body up over me. Our lower bodies danced together, the feel of her hips upon mine and her fingers inside of me was sublime. She bought me. Owned me. Possessed me.

She moved her left arm below my back, cradling me to her and shifting her angle so that she was thrusting further into me, pleasurably harder. My senses were on overload. My body couldn't get close enough to her and my head fell back. She attacked my neck, sucking along the exposed skin there. My breast pushed forward, demanding attention as well. She did not disappoint and bent her neck slightly, sucking and nipping at them. Her thrusting movements never slowed as our hips moved in time together.

"Fuck, Tara. You feel so good and you smell ... amazing. You always smell amazing. I can't get enough of you."

Faster still, we moved together. Our bodies, primal and wild, rushed toward our imminent release. I wrapped my leg tighter around her, her thrusting more forceful against my thigh as I pulled her closer to me, if it were possible. And it was, in the deepest darkest places of my being.

Then we both cried out, our lusty calls breaking the quiet of the house. My body clenched around her just before she let out a low, guttural groan, throwing her head back. She fell on top of me, exhausted. I felt as though I might float away yet the weight of her lying on top of me kept me anchored. She held me down and gave the night a feeling of reality it might not have had otherwise. I buried my nose in her hair, kissing the top of her forehead.

"I'll be right back, sweetness. Don't move a muscle." She purred as she got up and made her way to the bathroom. No problem there. I don't think I could move if I tried. After a few moments, she reappeared. Naked as the day she was born, she bent over her discarded jacket and plucked her cigarette pack and lighter from the breast pocket. After lighting up, she found an ashtray by the radio. She placed it on the nightstand, along with her lighter and cigarettes, next to her wallet and the empty glasses.

"Now, I'll be right back," I said, as I quickly headed to the bathroom, watching her settle onto the bed over my shoulder. Running the water in the sink basin, I pulled my hair back and quickly washed my face. Smiling, I looked at my reflection in the mirror. I had never felt so alive.

I quickly finished in the bathroom and considered throwing on the silk robe that hung on the back of the bathroom door. Instead, I walked out of the bathroom, both body and face naked. I watched her watching me walk toward the bed; her smile widened as I drew near and she said, "There's my Tare," almost to herself. She made room for me on the bed once more, but only enough that I could lay down flush against her. My skin against her equally overheated flesh. I settled in next to her and she took a long drag of her cigarette. Reaching over, I took the cigarette from her hand. Gazing at me questioningly, I could tell she was perplexed, until I took a puff of the cigarette myself. Slowly I drew the smoke into my lungs before pushing it out of my mouth.

"You want one?" she offered, starting to move off the bed to get the pack.

I tugged her arm back, not wanting her to be anywhere but right there beside me. "No, I like yours." Handing it back to her, I rested my head on her chest, listening as the rhythmic beat of her heart matched with "You Belong to My Heart" playing on the radio. "You're staying, right?" I asked drowsily, as I snuggled into her arm.

"Nowhere I'd rather be, Tara-Rose."

Satisfied, my eyes closed and I drifted off to sleep.


	12. Chapter 12

CHAPTER 12

WPOV

That fistful of trouble that I knew was coming had just laid me flat out on her satin covered, king sized bed. The crazy thing was I was ready to get right back up and be here punching bag.

"Now I'll be right back," she murmured before sauntering to the bathroom. After a moment I heard the water running through the pipes.

I sat upright on the bed, my back resting on a mountain of creamy slick satin pillows, and lazily enjoyed my smoke, which always perfectly complimented the after effects of really fucking good sex. A few minutes later, I heard the water shut off and my eyes flew to the bathroom door, where she emerged, gloriously nude and completely free. She'd washed off the mask of make-up that, at first, had tricked me into thinking that she was average in all the ways that mattered.

"There's my Tare," I said as she crawled back into the bed and draped herself next to me. Once she was comfortable, she plucked the cigarette from my fingers and took a long pull. I'd never seen her smoke until that moment, and I was distracted by the way her full lips caressed the thin white paper as they puckered sinfully around the thin cigarette.

"You want one?" I offered and started towards the pack. _Because I can watch that all night_.

"No, I like yours," she said and pulled me back down. I smiled at her confession despite myself. She handed the cigarette back to me and settled herself pleasantly against me, her head resting on my chest.

"You're staying, right?" she asked, half sleepy, half hopeful.

"Nowhere I'd rather be, Tara-Rose," I promised and she snuggled closer. It wasn't long before I heard her, very softly and very adorably, snoring.

As I reached over and tapped my cigarette on the edge of the ashtray, I wondered why I wasn't looking for an excuse to escape her bedroom. I didn't usually _bunk_ with dames; it set … expectations. But Tara-Rose wasn't the average girl either. When we had first met, I'd pegged her wrong. I'd assumed she was like so many other beautiful girls, all looks and no substance. No smarts. No spirit. They had been boring. Boring on a date and really fucking boring in the sack.

Tonight confirmed what I had begun to suspect all week, that Tara-Rose wasn't just any dame.

Tara-Rose was a woman. With heart and brains and looks, a deadly, heartbreaking combination to be sure.

_And fucking demanding, don't forget that, Rosenberg_. I chuckled, remembering her complaint that I wasn't screwing her fast enough.

I smiled again, recalling when she climbed on top of me and pinned my hands to the bed. She _wanted_ it, and she wasn't afraid to show me exactly how much. No meek, shy glances followed by inexperienced hands and cold fish served up on a platter. Not from my Tare. She _burned_, from the inside out; she smoldered. Even when I did things that her furious blush told me she hadn't done before, she let go enough to let me dominate her, which I imagined is a pretty big deal for Tara-Rose Maclay. I had to admit that she had dominated me too. I also had to admit that I liked it. Tonight, we had come together and been equals. I didn't realize it until now, but we had been equals all along, too similar in nature to be anything else. Both strong-willed and used to getting our way.

She certainly had her way with me. I smiled and took a long pull on my smoke.

While I was being honest with myself, I might as well admit that I liked her; I was dizzy for this dame. I liked her perfume and her courage. I liked her honesty and her flirty little dresses that drove me absolutely and irrationally wild. But above all of that, I liked having her around. She calmed my temper and anchored me, and I knew I could use more of that in my life.

She played her part at the Gala perfectly and proved she could handle herself with calm grace which was more than I could say for my own behavior this evening, and I had to admit I was proud of her. She'd gotten some information that might be helpful, but I didn't want to mull it over now and ruin the moment. Tomorrow, I bargained with myself as I snuffed out my cigarette. When I reached toward the ashtray, I disrupted her sleep and she moved to turn her back to me. I lifted the satin sheet off my hip and slid down beside her, her back to my front. With one finger I pulled a few stray curls of her hair off of her neck and around to her back. She sighed contentedly and I brought my lips to her bare shoulder as I wrapped an arm around her waist.

"Goodnight, Tara," I breathed against her skin before kissing her shoulder softly and laying my head on the satin-covered pillow beside hers. Within minutes, the scent of roses and the radio playing "Stardust" lulled me to sleep.

I woke up the next morning, alone, and it was really bright as the morning sunlight lit up her white bedroom. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and looked around expecting to see Tara-Rose somewhere, but my gaze was met with nothing but a big, empty, cold bed.

I threw the satin sheet off of me and stood up with every intention of getting dressed, but then I remembered all I had to wear was that stupid fucking tuxedo. I groaned as I started plucking my carelessly disrobed garments off the floor and putting them on. I left the cummerbund on the bed for Tara. I didn't _need_ it at the moment and I might as well leave it here. I planned to come back later today to return the tux. Once I got home and was able to change into my own clothes after a nice long shower.

I went to the nightstand, picking up my pack of Lucky Strikes. I shook one out and lit it while I scratched my head and I looked around, wondering where in the hell I threw my cufflinks.

_Only one way to find them_, I sighed, as I dropped to my knees to begin the search.

I felt like an idiot, crawling around on all fours like a dog, pawing through the thick shag of the white carpet, hoping to find both my little silver Rosenberg crest cufflinks. I vaguely recalled tossing them somewhere close to the wall, somewhere between pinning her against it and helping her loose that damn dress. My mouth twisted into a smile at the memory of her hands tangling in my Brylcreem coated hair and her surrender to me, before forcing me to surrender to _her_.

_Wouldn't be opposed to an encore of that performance._

"Are you looking for something, Miss. Rosenberg?" I heard Buffy ask from behind me. I was too busy thinking about Tara to notice that she had entered the room.

I ran my hand through my hair and grinned at her. "My cufflinks," I admitted.

"And you think they might be on the floor?" she asked innocently as she got down on the carpet beside me and smiled. _Wise girl_. A maid who knows when to turn the other cheek and not ask questions was worth her weight in gold.

"I think they might be," I confessed and winked at her. She stifled a laugh and we resumed the search. Within a few minutes, she had found one by the vanity, and I had found the other near the wall in the corner of the room.

"Maybe the nightstand would be a safer place for these," she hinted as she dropped the one she found in my hand.

"Thanks, I'll try to remember that. Where's Tara-Rose?"

"She's at breakfast, with Mr. Donald," she answered.

"Thanks, Buffy, you're a doll," I said and smiled genuinely at her before she went back downstairs.

_A good egg, that one_.

I went back to the nightstand to retrieve the rest of my personal effects. I knew I wasn't going to see much of Tara-Rose today. My detective duties sorely needed my attention, but I knew that she, and last night's events, would be on my mind all day. For some unfathomable reason, I wanted her to think of me, too. I drew out two smokes from my pack and laid them on the nightstand for her. Even if she didn't think of me, my thoughts of her luscious lips wrapped around my Lucky Strike would be enough to keep me … _motivated_.

I left the bedroom to make my way to the breakfast table. As I approached the dining room, I could hear a male voice tinged with a tone of concerned suspicion. I stepped into the room, eyeing the young man with honey blonde curls, a youthful, barely there beard and dark blue eyes: I could only assume this was Donald, as I softly planted a kiss on Tara's golden crown. I felt her stiffen under my lips and I pulled away, searching her face for any sign of trouble. She looked … uncomfortable, perhaps even annoyed?

"Donald, I'd like to introduce you to Miss Rosenberg," she said and nervously wrung her hands.

"Nice to finally meet you, Donald, thanks for loaning me the tux," I said and stuck my hand out in friendship. He hesitated for a spit second, eyeing my hand contemptuously, before meeting his palm with mine and shaking vigorously.

"If you want, you can keep it," he returned, his tone less than warmly. "I outgrew it years ago," he continued, and took his seat again. "So, you're a Detective, Tara-Rose tells me. Must be an interesting line of work; especially working a man's job and all."

I ignored the slight dig and started to pull out a chair as I answered him. "It can be interesting, if the _clients_ are interesting," I said and glanced at Tara, but before I could sit down and serve myself a big helping of scrambled eggs, bacon and toast steaming on the table in front of me, Tara-Rose spoke up.

"Shall I have Alexander drive you home, Miss. Rosenberg?" she said coolly, as she served herself another portion of fruit salad.

_Miss Rosenberg? What the hell?_

I got the hint that I was being dismissed and pushed the chair back into its spot under the table. "No thanks, Tare, I'll grab a cab," I said. I had no desire to duke it out in a silent cockfight with Alexander from the backseat of the limo.

"Suit yourself," she shrugged carelessly. "Buffy, would you please get Miss. Rosenberg her coat and call her a cab," she requested, as if it were an everyday occurrence. She cast her eyes down to the table, picking up her coffee and taking a big unladylike gulp.

_Uh-huh … that's what I thought_, I smirked. I should have realized it would be awkward for her, my meeting Donald under _these_ circumstances.

Once she pulled the cup away from her lips, I put my finger under her chin and tilted her face up, forcing her to look me in the eye.

"I'll be seeing you, Tara. Sooner rather than later," I promised with a murmur. I winked at her and I didn't give her a chance to reply. I simply turned on my heel, stopped to take an apple from the fruit bowl and left, shouting over my shoulder, "I still need to talk with you Donald."


	13. Chapter 13

CHAPTER 13

TPOV

The February sunlight filtered through the light gauzy window drapes and subsequently, my eyelids. I attempted to flip to the other side of my bed and pull the covers over my head, only to find a barrier in my way. A very large, very androgynous barrier. My eyes flew open when the events of last night came rushing back to my no longer sleepy mind.

_Willow. Willow Rosenberg. The woman I hired to investigate my father's death … is in my bed_.

She stayed, which was lovely and surreal all rolled into one. I blinked, wondering if I had imagined everything that happened. Everything we had done. Slowly, she shifted and snuggled down lower into the covers, her bare leg pressing up against mine, and I knew, without a doubt, that this was very real.

I could hear the distant sounds of china clinking and the voices of people preparing breakfast downstairs. Closer still, I heard a noise by the door and then someone subtly clearing their throat. Gasping, I sat up, grasping the sheet to my chest and looked over. Out of my peripheral vision, I could see my hair puffed out and doing crazy things on top of my head in the mirror that sat on top of my vanity. In the reflection, I could also see Willow behind me barely covered by the sheet and sleeping soundly. There, in the doorway, stood by baby brother.

His eyes took in the scene before him and looking bemused he mouthed, "Sorry?" to me. Yet he continued to stand there, looking anything but sorry.

Eyes flashing, I pushed a piece of hair behind my ear that had fallen in my face. I hissed in a low voice, "What are you doing?"

In a low voice, although not quite as venomous as my own, he asked, "I think the better question, dear sister, is what did you do? Or, rather who?"

Falling back onto the pillow, I rolled my eyes toward the headboard. Picking my head up slightly, I shooed him away with my hand, holding up a finger indicating I'd be downstairs in a moment. He closed the door silently behind him and I crept out of the bed. Willow rolled toward my vacant spot, snuggling her face into the pillow. I quickly grabbed light slacks and one of my father's sweaters from my dresser and got dressed in the bathroom. The sweater still held the scent of his cologne; I had taken it from the study after he passed. Rolling up the sleeves, I brushed my hair so that I was presentable. Exiting the bathroom, I saw that Willow was still deep in slumber so I quietly padded out the door.

I found Donald sitting at the table in the dining room, newspaper in hand, a mystified expression on his face. "Well, well, well Tara-Rose. Look what the cat dragged in."

Despite myself, I smiled at him. "Well, well, well Donald," I mimicked back to him, resting my hands on the high backed chair. "I could say the same about you. How is it that we live in the same house yet I've barely seen you in the past week?"

"I believe it was Longfellow who said something about 'ships that pass in the night.' Although it looks like you were doing more than just sailing last night."

I groaned. "Donald, please tell me you weren't in the house last night." He grinned and shook his head, confirming that he was not, and for that, I was grateful.

"Is there any way we can pretend you didn't see that little scene up there?" I asked as I walked over to turn on the radio, looking for a bit of background noise. _Perhaps listening to music would effectively end the conversation._ The Andrew Sisters were singing in three part harmony, "Give Me Some Skin, My Friend" and Donald's grin only got wider.

"You got some _skin_ last night." His tone was teasing but I could detect an undertone of malice.

I circled back around the table toward my regular spot and when I neared him, I playfully smacked his arm. I muttered, "So juvenile," under my breath but loud enough for him to hear.

"Tara-Rose, come on. We all need to blow off a little steam every now and then. I, of all people, know this."

"That's wonderful, Donald. I don't really want to hear about your transgressions. Ever again, in my entire life." Not looking at him, I lied. "It was nothing. _Nothing_. I had a little too much Champaign last night. So please, let's stop talking about … it. _Now_." If I had been raised differently, I would have flopped into the chair that he held out for me. Instead, I sat on the edge.

"That's good to hear." He said in a huff as he gave me a pointed look, skepticism evident in his expressive features. "I'd hate to think that my darling sister has been corrupted by a dyke."

I said nothing in response, just held his gaze as I tried to convey with my eyes and set jaw that I wasn't consumed by improper thoughts. That what happened last night wasn't the single greatest thing to ever happen to me. That I hadn't been completely ravished by a beautiful woman in my own bed and loved every second of it. I narrowed my eyes and tried to project all of this and so much more without saying a word.

"But tell me, has that woman been earning the money you are paying her to find out about father's death?" his tone implied that I was paying her for other services. He was lucky he carried the prestigious honor of being my brother or I might have considered kicking him in the family jewels. If I were being honest, no one was safe from the possibility. Somehow, I managed to narrow my eyes even further, watching as he held up one hand in surrender. "Okay, I'll let you slide on the Private Detective currently snoozing away in your bed, for the moment."

We sat in silence for a few minutes thereafter, avoiding eye contact until Liam brought out the breakfast he had just prepared with the assistance of Declan who had returned from visiting his family the night prior. "Miss Tara-Rose? Should we set a place for … Miss Rosenberg?" Donald looked at me with raised eyebrows over the open paper, shaking it out and snapping it, folding it into quarters.

Sighing, I started cutting up the fresh fruit salad that was placed before me. How should I play this? I wish I had stayed in my room or woken Willow before coming downstairs. Declan still stood by the kitchen door, looking at me, expectantly.

"No Declan, I don't think that will be necessary. Thank you." He nodded his head once before heading back into the kitchen.

Donald's blue eyes met mine and once again I remembered his question regarding Daddy's death. We all shared the same eye color, but Donald and my father's eyes were the same almond shape. They crinkled in the corners almost identically and softened in the same way when they were concerned about me. In fact, Donald resembled Daddy in more than just his eyes. His build, his stature, the bass in his voice, they all reflected Daddy. Although I had no memory of her, the portraits and the photographs of her placed reverently throughout the house confirmed that I was, indeed, my mother's daughter, in looks if not in personality. My mannerisms were more like my father's, but looking into Donald's eyes was yet another silent reminder that our father was no longer with us.

"Tara-Rose? Did Detective Rosenberg find anything that would lead her to believe something happened with James' death?" his eyes probed mine and he leaned toward me, resting his hand on top of mine.

"So far, she hasn't offered anything concrete. We went to the Gala last night and chatted with William Pratt and some of the other … people in attendance to see if there was anything else we could find."

Donald's mood shifted and he was perturbed. "Why would you bring her there to talk to those people? Tara-Rose, I don't like it, none of this. I don't like her putting you in harm's way. It's not appropriate. This whole situation you and she have going on is highly inappropriate."

Defensively, I opened my mouth to rebut Donald's accusations of what he believed to be Willow's ill-conceived plan. After all, I would have attended the Gala regardless. However, before I was able to get the first word out, Willow appeared in the dining room, wearing the same tuxedo she wore last night, although a bit more wrinkled, and looking not at all phased by that fact. I watched out of the corner of my eye as she walked toward me, her hair slightly hanging over her eyes as she positioned herself by my chair, her silky fingertips brushing over my bare forearm resting on my lap; arising goosebumps instantly. I automatically stiffened, not sure what to do in the situation. Donald had already made it pretty clear he was not comfortable with Willow's orientation or the fact that we had spent the night together.

I was also worried about Willow's intentions. What if she didn't see this the same way that I did? Perhaps she considered it a onetime thing, not to be repeated. I still wanted to work with her on a professional level but I didn't want her to know the way she affected me, the effect she had on my heart. I also didn't want Donald to know any of this. I was supposed to be a wholesome American woman. A devoted Christian. My father had been a religious man, deterring us from temptation and sinful ways; it would have devastated him to know his only daughter was consumed with corrupted thoughts of being intimate with another woman.

"Donald, I'd like to introduce you to Miss. Rosenberg," I introduced my brother to my lover, wringing my hands nervously under the table as I tried my best to remain professional. _What is wrong with me? _

The two chatted for a few moments while I tuned them out. I needed something to do with my hands, something to busy myself so that I didn't have to meet her eyes. I decided to serve myself some more fruit salad, even though I already had plenty on my plate. The table held quite a spread, far too much food for just Donald and I, but I didn't feel comfortable asking Willow to join us for the meal.

"Shall I have Alexander drive you home, Miss. Rosenberg?" I knew it was a cold and detached question but I needed time to work everything over in my head. If she didn't want me, I didn't want her to be under the assumption that last night meant anything more to me than it did to her. I truly hoped that wasn't the case but I didn't know and I couldn't ask, given the situation.

Her voice told me that she'd pass on the ride, but I could understand the subtext. She didn't want to be with Alexander, the morning after our tryst. _Understandable_. Alexander would question the detective as to why she was leaving in the morning, rather than last night. I couldn't blame Willow for not wanting to deal with that sort of scrutiny first thing in the morning.

Buffy appeared by my side with the coffee carafe, pouring me a large cup. I immediately took it into my hands, ignoring the heat coming off the cup and slightly burned my palms.

"Suit yourself. Buffy, would you please get Detective Rosenberg's coat and call her a cab?" I shrugged, trying to appear careless and fancy free. I took a big gulp of my coffee, not thinking of the consequences my action would cause. It seared my tongue and throat as the bitter liquid rushed down. That was a mistake.

_Was last night a mistake as well?_

Wincing, I looked down at the table to allow Willow time to show herself to the door. I was surprised to feel a finger graze underneath my chin. She tilted my head up and looked me dead in the eye. I nearly threw myself into her arms. _Donald be damn_. But instead I sat there, unmoving.

"I'll be seeing you, Tara. Sooner rather than later," her eyes shone and she winked at me before walking toward the front foyer. I casted a sideways glance to Donald to gauge his reaction; his eyebrows where drawn down in displeasure. On her way, she grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl and bit into it. I sat there, momentarily stunned as I listened to the sound of her voice calling out to my brother mingled with the echo of her footsteps on the hardwood floor.

"I have to say, Sis, that sure doesn't look like 'nothing' to me." Donald whistled and leaned back in his chair, propping his feet out in front of him. I wanted to slap the patronizing smirk off of his face.

I made a face but didn't answer him.

"I don't want you to see her anymore." He deadpanned a few moments later as he removed his feet from the table, sitting upright and proper in his seat. "As the man of this house, I'm forbidding you."

We sat in silence the remainder of breakfast, I mulling over in my head, while he read the paper. After excusing myself, I returned to my room. My unmade bed with two indentations on the pillows was yet another stark reminder of what had happened between Willow and myself. I walked to my vanity, intent on picking up the cosmetics that had tumbled to the floor the night before. A knowing smile swept across my face as I thought about how she had propped me up, ravishing my body with her mouth. I found the bottles had all been neatly lined in front of the mirror. _Probably_ _Buffy_. She was so good to me.

I heard her footsteps approaching and heard her moving outside of my room. She knocked softly and when I acknowledged her, she peeked her head in.

"Miss. Tara-Rose? Are you ready for me to make up your bed?"

"No, Buffy. Not yet, thank you." I wasn't ready for the reminder to disappear just yet. Although from her parting words, Willow was planning on seeing me quite soon. I would not mind that at all but Donald had made it apparent she was no longer welcomed into our home.

My eyes teared up as I sat on the side of the bed where she slept. Looking at my nightstand, I saw that she had left two cigarettes resting where the pack had been. Wiping away the tear from my eye, I couldn't help but smile at the random thoughtfulness. Most men would have plucked a flower from the vase in the hallway, perhaps left a note with it resting on the pillow, but not Willow. It had already been established that Willow was nothing like the men I'd come across. She was so much more. I took one of the cigarettes and put it between my lips, finding the book of matches I had in the drawer of the stand.

With a few short sentences this morning and two cigarettes on my nightstand, her character was firmly established in my mind. Willow Rosenberg was one of the good guys. A genuinely good and caring person had been in my bed. Leaning back on the bed where her body had laid just a short time ago, I smoked my cigarette and smiled. Donald be damned, I would see her again.


	14. Chapter 14

CHAPTER 14

WPOV

When I got home, I stripped off that damn penguin suit as fast as fucking possible and got right into a hot shower. Tara's perfume lingered on my skin, and I almost kicked myself when I realized I'd be washing the scent of her off of me. What I was anxious to wash off was all that Brylcreem shit. While I scrubbed my head with shampoo, I thought of Tara's change of attitude this morning. I couldn't help but think she regretted what we had done, that she wasn't interested in me like the way I was with her. Closing my eyes as I stepped under the stream of water, I pushed away my thoughts of Tara-Rose and forced myself to buck up and start doing my job. I turned my attention to the amount of information I had gathered over the week, which, in all honesty, was pathetic. The few leads I did have were vague and not fitting together.

It hadn't taken me long to track down Russell Snyder on the docks; or all that hard to squeeze him for information. The weasel of a man admitted rather quickly to the hostile encounter he had with Mr. Maclay and to following through with his vail threat that one of Madam's girls overheard. Off of my perplexed look, he followed up his statement with a cocky grin as he hitched a greasy thumb over his shoulder, pointing at several large wouldn't crates, claiming he took his revenge out by urinating on Mr. Maclay's product. Although repulsive, it was clear speaking with him that Russell Snyder was no evil mastermind and no way involved in Mr. Maclay's death. As for Liam, he was keeping his nose out of trouble; the three strike rule normally did for those previously convicted of felonies. That left me with the blueprints for the hotel I had found on Mr. Maclay's work desk. They now were making sense; it had been the business deal Rob alluded to. That left me with Richard Wilkins whose whereabouts were currently unknown; his receptionist, a dark haired beauty, having informed me the day prior that he hopped a train to Arizona early Tuesday morning. He was the only loose end I had to go off, but I had a sinking feeling in my gut that it wouldn't pan out. I knew Tara-Rose felt strongly that something had happened, so I would keep chipping away until I found the piece I was missing.

The only concrete information I did have to work with at the moment was a threatening letter I found in a dead guy's desk, a nulled contract, and a whole lot of people that were shocked that the dead guy was dead. Slim pickin's.

The staff at the mansion all said they had been treated well by Mr. Maclay, and that he was well respected by everyone from the once hired hand, Liam to the chauffer Alexander. Not one of them did I suspect of lying to me, and I was damn good at reading people. His employees at the Le Beau offices were no different, having gone on and on about what a generous and kind man he had been. How he treated everyone as an equal and how they are truly saddened by his passing. The vast majority of them even asked if I could please pass along their condolences to his children, and to be sure and tell Miss. Maclay that they were all behind her as the new CEO. I had nodded yes and promised, but had grown pissed that I wasn't getting anything I could use.

Yesterday, before the Gala, I had gone to the country club and talked to his tennis and golf buddies, who were all very helpful and obliging. His golf cronies kept insisting they were shocked at the news that a heart attack was to blame. He was in excellent health, never missed a round of eighteen holes. Mr. Maclay always insisted on carrying his own clubs, leaving his caddy to rake bunkers, repair divots and forecaddie his drives and blind shots. He tipped the same regardless, so even the caddies spoke well of him.

With Mr. Wilkins gone in the wind and the contract for the hotel long voided, I only had one clue left to investigate that would hopefully tie back to the killer … the threatening letter I had found in Mr. Maclay's desk. It didn't make sense to me why it was intended for Mr. Maclay. He had enough resources to come up with cash at a moment's notice, no matter how large the sum. Why would he let a situation get out of control enough to warrant getting a warning in the first place? Besides, William's uncouth offer to Tara-Rose to bump off the killer indicated that at least he didn't know why James Maclay was dead, or who was responsible; however, when it came to mobster's, you had to take their word with a grain of salt. Then again, William Pratt wasn't the only mob boss in the Big City.

So where did the letter come from? It had to belong to someone else. Someone who needed help and had come to Mr. Maclay perhaps? Someone who was refused that help? Possibly a disgruntled Mr. Wilkin's after Mr. Maclay denied his investment opportunity. That was the only logical conclusion I could come up with at this point. Besides, that would at least give me a motive, which was something I really fucking needed at this point in the case.

I was getting desperate for answers. If something didn't pan out soon, I was going to have to call my God Father and interview him about his connection to the Maclay family. About what the doctor appointment had been about. And if he found any abnormalities during the exam that he may have left out of Mr. Maclay's medical file.

I pushed the thought away as I finished washing up and turned off the water, the warm droplets rolling off of me and onto the white porcelain of the footed tub. I pulled a thick black towel off the nearby rack and quickly patted myself dry before stepping out of the tub and wrapping it around my waist.

After I brushed my teeth, I went in search of my smokes and lit one as I dressed in my grey flannel suit. I had to go out, to the place where I did my best thinking. Once I was dressed, I put my Colt in the holster under my suit jacket and shrugged into my black wool overcoat. I swiped my hat, smokes and flask off the desk and headed to the dive that ironically had the best Chinese food in town, Hwang.

Hwang himself greeted me like an old friend, or his best customer, when I walked in his tiny, greasy, green wallpapered restaurant. I moved to my usual table by the kitchen and sat down. "Ahhh … Miss. Rosenberg, sesame chicken today?" Hwang guessed when he came to take my order and pour me a cup of coffee. Not that he needed to guess or take my order, I always had the same thing, twice a week. Coming here had become sort of a routine bordering on tradition over the last five years.

"And a side of hot and sour soup, Hwang, thanks," I added before he scurried into the kitchen.

The radio was playing "If I Didn't Care" as I pulled out my flask and took a swig, then reached for my smokes. I slowly pulled one from the pack and brought it to my lips while I imagined Tara smoking the cigarettes I left for her. I envisioned her ruby red lips pulling gently as she inhaled, and parting softly as she exhaled. I hoped her bullshit this morning was just an act for Donald's sake. I realized with surprise that I'd be more than a little disappointed if last night had ruined whatever it was we had between us, and that really fucking scared me. It was too late to head for shore now, I was in too deep, and if I didn't keep paddling towards her, something told me I'd drown.

Getting fucking soft, Rosenberg, knew all along you'd never make it out of this case in one piece.

Sometimes I wished I could tell myself to shut the hell up. I was grateful when Hwang brought my meal and I didn't have to think anymore. At least the food and my hunger took my mind of Tara … for the time being. Again I forced my attention back to the case. Unfortunately, after wolfing down my serving of the best sesame chicken in New York, smoking a half pack of Lucky's, and wasting an hour scrutinizing every possibility of the Maclay case from every possible angle, I still wasn't any closer to the answer.

You're losing your touch, Rosenberg. Time to make that fucking phone call.

I tried to procrastinate a little longer and played with the fortune cookie Hwang had brought out with my food. I never ate them; I hated the taste of the cookie, vanilla with a hint of stale cardboard. Breaking open the cookies shell, I pulled out the little piece of paper and squinted to read the tiny red writing.

"_A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. Lau Tzu"_

_Fuck._

I hung my head in defeat as I scooted my chair away from the table and stood dejectedly. I pursed my lips and glanced over at the payphone, which, of course, no one was fucking using.

_Damn my shitty luck_.

My feet dragged as I trudged over to the phone hanging on the wall by the ladies bathroom. I plucked the receiver off the hook and positioned it between my ear and my shoulder. Plunging my right hand into the pocket of my coat, I searched for the nickel I knew I'd dropped in there yesterday after buying smokes. My hand didn't feel the cold metal of the nickel however. Instead, it felt the crumple of paper.

I pulled two small slips of paper from my pocket and examined them carefully. As I read the receipts I held in my hands, my mouth went dry and my eyes widened in shock. I grabbed the receiver off my shoulder and thrust it back down on the hook. I turned and strode back to my table, carelessly tossing some bills down from my wallet to cover my food, and then sprinted towards the door.

"See ya in a few days, Hwang, thanks!" I shouted as I opened the door and ran out to the sidewalk, knocking over an old woman loaded down with groceries. "Sorry ma'am," I apologized and tipped my hat before running to the curb of the street. Of course it took me forever to hail a goddamn taxi. I had to resort to pulling out a five spot and waving it around before an Irish bloke finally pulled over for me. I jumped in his cab and blurted the address from one of the receipts.

"And step on it," I ordered firmly.

"Aye," he nodded, and stomped on the gas, weaving his way through the traffic as best he could.

I turned to stone in the back of the cold cab as I concentrated on the meaning of this turn of events. Obviously the coat I had on was not mine, but it looked just like mine. There had to have been a mix up with the coat check at the Gala, I realized. I must have been so caught up in Tara-Rose that I didn't notice last night. I looked down at the black coat buttons and examined them; they were smooth and rounded along the edge. The buttons on my coat had a pattern stamped into the plastic all the way around, like a dime.

I had no idea whose property the coat, and the receipts I'd found inside the pockets, belonged to. What I did know is the receipts showed the purchase of two items, one for Foxglove seeds, and the other for a mortar and pestle, on the same date a little over two weeks ago. Items that would be innocent enough on their own if they hadn't been purchased on the same day. I knew the likelihood that any of this was connected to the Maclay case was next to nothing, but it was suspicious in and of itself and worthy of further investigation. If I could find out who had made the purchases, then at least I'd find out whose coat I was wearing, and at the very least, get my coat back.

The cab pulled up in front of the Ace Hardware store on Broadway, and I threw more money at the cabbie. "Wait here, I won't be long," I said and got out.

The hardware store was brightly lit and I quickly scanned the sales floor above the rows stocked shelves for a clerk. To my left, standing behind the counter, I saw a young woman with strawberry blonde curls and delicate freckles dappling her cheeks.

_Perfect._

I smoothed my expression as I strode towards her and tipped my hat. "Pardon me, Miss, but I don't suppose you could help me, could you?" I purred as I leaned an elbow on the counter top and pushed my hat up with one finger, flashing her my best crooked smile.

"Cer…certainly," she stuttered and blinked.

_I'm certain you can as well._

I pulled the receipts from my pocket, picking out the one with the Ace Hardware name printed on the top. "I'm trying to find the owner of this," I said as I pushed the first receipt toward her; she picked it up and began examining it.

"You see, it seems he is also the owner of this coat. This morning, I discovered that there must have been a mix up at the Children's Hospital Gala I attended last night, and this gentleman must have my coat. I don't suppose you were the person to help him with this purchase?"

"I sure did," she offered eagerly. "He came in about 3 weeks ago, and wanted to buy these here Foxglove seeds. I thought he was crazy! Who plants flowers in January?" she said and rolled her eyes. "We didn't have 'em in stock, we don't carry any garden seed in January. But I told him we could order some in for him from the Burpee's catalog."

"Do you happen to remember what he looked like, Alice?" I murmured as I caught sight of her name tag reflecting the hideous ceiling lights.

"Oh sure, he was a real looker, very dreamy. He had curly dusty blonde hair, high cheekbones and these gorgeous blue eyes," she confessed and I gulped on the last word. "Maybe a foot taller than you."

Holy shit, dusty blonde curls and blue eyes …?

"Do you remember anything else," I inquired, my tension mounting, "an identifying characteristics maybe?

"He had a cut on his left eyebrow," Alice said as she tapped her own eyebrow, "Nasty gash, probably going to scar."

"Ever see him before?" I asked, her description of the culprit formulating in my mind.

"No … never," she admitted, "I'd remember him too."

"Any idea where he might live?" I asked, hoping she'd say something to prove my suspicion was unfounded.

She flushed, "No, I don't. Sorry," she said regretfully.

"Well thanks anyway, sweetheart," I said and gently pinched her cheek before turning and walking back out to the cab.

As instructed, the cab was still there waiting for me. I ran to it and got in, ordering him to get me to Tara-Rose's house as fast as fucking possible. As I took out my gun and made sure it was loaded and ready, I realized that if anything happened to her before I could get there, I would be the one the coppers would be looking to pin a murder on, and I'd be guilty as goddamn sin.


	15. Chapter 15

CHAPTER 15

Rated R

WARNING: Trigger warning. Mentioning's of attempted assault/rape.

TPOV

That morning, I felt the need to loaf in my bed. Returning to bed and being lazy wasn't a luxury I often allowed myself but it was a nice diversion. Besides, it smelled like her: Bourbon, Lucky Strikes, and Brylcreem with a touch of Old Spice. Her smell lingered on my pillow and in the sheets long after she was gone. I wanted to think only of her, spend the day daydreaming of Willow Rosenberg: her wicked grin and bedroom eyes.

Eventually, I knew that I needed to get some work done. After a quick shower, I dressed in lounging clothes. Even though I didn't plan on leaving the house, I never knew who might stop by. I knew who I hoped would stop by. I chided myself: Work, Tara-Rose. Think about work! I was scheduled to return to the Le Beau offices bright and early Monday morning and I needed to get back into the work mindset.

Pulling out a notepad and pencil, I outlined a few new campaign ideas that had been floating around in my head. Some were things that Daddy and I had discussed before his passing, and others were new ideas I thought we should explore. As the new head of Le Beau Cosmetics, I knew that my every move would be watched, my every decision critiqued. I wanted to come across as strong, confident, and fair, just as my father had been.

The room was too quiet, so I snapped on the radio only to hear "Green Eyes." It was the song we had danced to at the Gala. Instead of making me think of her less, I only thought of her _more_. _Was I a fool to want her? Could I get along without her?_ _Could we have a life together?_ I was afraid to answer those questions.

_Snap out of it, Tara-Rose!_

Attempting to focus, I turned my attention back to the notes I had scribbled on the paper in front of me. Realizing I didn't have the latest information about the newest line of nail polish in my room, I slipped my feet into my slippers and walked down the hall to my father's study.

The door was partially closed. _Odd_. Daddy had usually kept it closed for privacy reasons, and more so now, it was kept closed out of respect for the recently deceased; but it appeared as though someone might be in there. Slowly swinging the door open and not sure of what I would find, I was surprised to see my brother. He was on his knees in front of the bottom desk drawer, surrounded by papers and rifling through the meticulous files our father had kept.

"Donald?" He startled at the sound of my voice, looking up from his place near the desk to where I stood in the entrance of the room, eyes wide. "Donald," I repeated. I wasn't exactly sure what I was seeing. He had a wild look in his eyes, somewhat crazed. "What are you doing?"

"I'm looking for ….something, Tara." He seemed hesitant to tell me any more information.

Quickly, pieces started falling into place and the room spun around me while I stood there, rooted to one spot. Once more, in the same study where I had completely and truly accepted the fact that my father was dead, I realized who was responsible for his death.

Moving toward the window, I sat down on the settee so that my legs wouldn't give out from underneath me. I had to keep it together. I hope to God I'm mistaken.

"That note … it wasn't for Daddy." I said quietly, sadly aware that I wasn't asking a question but stating a fact. Wrapping my arms around my torso, I continued, "You won't find it here. Willow has it."

"Tara-Rose…" Donald started over to me, putting his arm out as though he was going to wrap them around my shoulders.

I put my hand out to rebuff him. "No. Don't touch me. Sit down over there and answer me. The note," I said, trying to keep the slightly hysterical rise from my voice, "it wasn't for him. It was for you." I needed to hear him say it.

Donald didn't answer. Instead he rested his hands on his forehead and blew out a long breath. He stood like that for a while, rubbing the base of his palms against his closed eyes. "It wasn't supposed to go down like this, Tara." He finally said.

I was afraid to know what he meant, but I had to asked, I needed to know. "What do you mean?"

"It was only supposed to make him sick," he said as he lowered his arms, his hands coming to rest at his sides. "It wasn't supposed to kill him."

"Why would you do that Donald?"

He leaned over the desk and picked up a rock paperweight that he had painted and made for our father when he was in elementary school.

"You know, I made this for James when I was in fourth grade. It was a Christmas project. I was so proud that he used it but I always asked why he didn't take it into the office. He said that it was better for the home study." He placed the paperweight back down on the desk as he looked at me. "I was always better at home. He took you out, paraded you around. He would have given you the world if you asked."

"This can't be about jealousy, Donald."

"_Jealously?_" he spat the word out at me as though it personally offended him. "It's not about jealously."

"Then what _is_ it about, Donald?" I nearly begged him, "Please help me because I can't possibly understand your rationale and Lord knows; I'm really trying to here."

"This is about our father not helping his family, his _son_." He growled out.

It didn't make sense. This conversation, his animosity toward our father; none of it made sense. "I am not sure what you are insinuating. Daddy would have helped either of us, if we needed it." He shook his head vehemently, repeating the word _no_ as I spoke.

"_Daddy_ didn't help me when I needed it." He moved next to me and sat on the settee. I shifted slightly so that I wasn't sitting so close to him.

"I got in a bit over my head with a gambling debt-"

I arched an eyebrow. "If I recall, and I'm certain I know more about this than you think I do, you _often_ get in 'a bit over your head' when it comes to gambling."

Donald looked at me, emotions warring on his face. Both sadness and anger were evident in his expression. "Well, our father wouldn't assist me this time around. I guess he didn't tell you that; did he, dear sister?" He took a deep breath and his eyes met mine. Once again, I was reminded of our father and the thought now sickened me. "And Tara-Rose? It was big; I'm talking a lot of money. The people involved weren't taking no for an answer. I was desperate. I had nowhere else to turn and I brought the note to James."

I willed my eyes not to squeeze shut. Not to force the angry tears out that I was holding in. Those tears would show a sign of weakness, which I couldn't afford at the moment. Thankfully, my voice did not betray me. "And what did he say?"

"He told me that he'd see what he could do. Dismissed me like I was one of the help."

My heart hurt within my chest and my lungs felt like they couldn't get enough air. Drawing in a sharp breath, I said, "Donald, I don't believe it. Daddy didn't treat the staff like 'the help,' he treated them like family. I'm sure if you-"

"I don't know when this is going to get through your thick skull, Tara-Rose, but our father wasn't the martyr you make him out to be. He wasn't perfect; far from it, actually. He was flawed and sometimes I think I was the only one able to see those flaws."

I needed to get away from him. I stood and went to the drink cart, pouring some sort of alcohol with a shaking hand. I couldn't even pay attention to what it was. I just needed the distance between us. Donald continued with his rant. "I was always second best to you, even though I was his son! The one who would carry on the Maclay name. Carry on our legacy! He couldn't get past the fact that Mother passed away after birthing me. So instead, he turned to you for his source of comfort. You were his reason for being. He decided to raise you to run the family business, and he put all his hopes and dreams into your future, not mine."

"He wasn't going to give me the money. He made that quite clear when we last spoke about the issue. So to save myself … to save my life … I ended up taking his."

His face twisted into a pained mask that I had never seen before on my baby brother, until this day. "I should have guessed that he had altered the will so that everything would be left to you. A dirty, vile whore! The final blow to me and it shouldn't have surprised me in the slightest."

"How much, Donald?" My voice was low.

I couldn't look at him. My blood burned through my body and roared in my ears. I was surprised I could hear his low answer of "nineteen."

I closed my eyes, the inside of my eyelids were a vivid red.

"Nineteen hundred?"

"Nineteen _thousand."_

My eyes snapped open instantly_. I was still seeing red. _"Donald. Nineteen thousand dollars?"I took a deep breath in an attempt to calm myself. It did not work. "For the love of all that is holy! How could you do this?" The money. Our father. All of it.

He stood from the chair with such force that it shoved backward into the wall. I took a step away from him. He was standing in front of me in an instant, grabbing my shoulders and shaking me, "He wasn't supposed to die. Just get sick. Sick enough where he needed my help for once."

This wasn't my brother standing before me. This was some enraged man who was obviously not thinking clearly, not thinking at all. I couldn't think of the right words and I was completely torn with what to do. My brain frantically tried to sort things out. I considered just giving him the money, letting him pay his debt and flee. The other part of my brain was screaming to call the police and turn him in. He'd be in jail, but I knew the people he owed and they could probably get to him, even in jail. Either way, I would lose my brother.

If I were being honest with myself, he was already lost.

"Please. Please let go of me," I pleaded as my voice wavered in fear.

"What, you think I'm going to kill you too?" his brows furrowed together as he looked at me, his teeth clenched tight showing off the muscles in his jaw, a wild look in his eyes. He continued to stare down at me until his face slowly started to soften, my fear finally registering with him. "I could never hurt you Tara. But these guys I owe, they're not messing around. They'll knock me off if I don't come up with some cabbage fast."

He let go of my arm and took a few steps back, the back of his legs bumping into our father's desk. Perching on the edge of the desk, he looked skyward as he chewed on the bottom of his lip. "I'm going to need that money, Tara."

"He's not wrong," said a gruff voice from the door.

Jumping in shock, not having heard anyone approach, I stared wide eyed at William Pratt and the several cronies lingering in the hallway behind him. The chopper squad standing behind him meant business, there weapons visible in the waistband of their slacks. I counted at least three hatchetmen, one of which was the sleaze ball from the Gala, Parker Abrams.

"What do you want?" I asked, my eyes consistently shifting between William and my brother.

"I think you know what I want, doll." William snarled out as he strode further into the room, his black overcoat billowing behind him like an ominous cloud. Nodding his head, he signaled to his goons to enter the room; two circling around Donald as Mr. Abrams walked up to me. "Little Donny here owes me quite a bit of money and I'm here to collect."

"I … I don't have it," he stuttered as the goons grabbed a hold of him, securely gripping an arm each. "I need more time."

Clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth, William shook his head in disappointment. "Now, I've been more than accommodating with you welshing on your debt. You asked for more time and I let you off with a warning. But I guess that's in part my fault; I should have had my men break your knees instead of blackening your eye to get the point across."

My head snapped towards my brother, taking in the now yellowish purple bruise still remaining around his eye. I should have known better. I shook my head in disappointment, my eyes watering with tears as my heart broke all over again. Donald had gotten himself in deep with a loan shark and the outcome wasn't looking good.

"Let my sister go," Donald begged, his eyes filled with fright. "I'll get you your money!"

"Now, you owe me nineteen thousand dollars, plus interest." Remarked William as he walked toward my brother, his right hand reaching inside his jacket. Brandishing a pistol, he placed the barrel to Donald's forehead. "Now, I'm not much for negotiations but I think we could work something out to eliminate that interest."

Before I knew it, Mr. Abrams was standing behind me. I didn't have a chance to step away before his arms were wrapped firmly around my torso. My body instantly tensed as I felt his hot breath hit the back of my neck.

"It seems like Mr. Abram has taken quite the interest in your sister," chuckled William as he turned his head to the side; his smile growing wider as he watched tears cascade from my eyes.

He watched; amusement evident in his eyes as Mr. Abram pulled me closer to his body. With one hand wrapped around my waist, he let the other trail down my neck, his fingers gliding down to my exposed sternum before tracing over my breast. He was set to have his way with me; it was implied by his caresses and William's words.

"Please don't do this," Donald begged, tears streaming down his own cheeks, mingling with the snot pouring out of his nose. "Please! Kill me. Just kill me. But please, let her go."

"Oh, we'll let her go," William stated as he pressed the barrel harder against Donald's forehead. "She's about to inherit your debt." He cocked back the hammer on his gun, "but first, you're going to watch what your stupidity has cost your sister."

The feeling of Abram's hands on my body sent trembles of fear throughout my body. I tried to talk but I felt like my vocal cords were being restricted. It felt as if every nerve ending in my body was screaming, begging for my brain to formulate a plan of escape. It was fruitless; my legs were anchored to the ground, my brain too panicked to think past what was about to happen.

I wasn't sure how we ended up behind the divan; I'm not sure if I walked willingly or he had dragged me. It wasn't until I felt a firm presser on my back did I snap back to reality. I began to struggle in his grasp, thrashing my arms to try and dislodge myself as I screamed for help. I only stopped yelling when a fist connected with my jaw, shockwaves of pain radiating throughout my head; leaving me seeing stars.

I was too dazed to fight back, my head reeling as my eyes fought to stay open. There was pressure once again on my back, the hand pressed firm against my shoulder blade as he pushed me forward, bending me slightly at the waist to rest against the back of the settee. One strong, callused hand pinned my wrist to the fabric of the settee as the other roughly pushed up my skirt. I quietly begged to be let go as tears poured down my cheek at an exponentially faster pace.

As tears blurred my vision and Donald loudly beseeched with William to let me go, I noticed through the open door Liam rushing down the hallway toward us. As he skidded to a stop, his hands gripping either side of the doorframe, I called out to him, pleading with him for help. He looked troubled as he looked from me to William; the gun still trained on my brother.

"Ah Liam, old friend!" William called out as he noticed the torpedo standing in the doorway. "You're just in time, we're about to have a little fun with Miss. Maclay here. Care to join us? Take a little spin after Abrams; prove to us you haven't been castrated."

"Please Liam, help me." My voice was strained, hitching as I felt Abrams' hand glide higher up my thigh. My lips trembled as he stood there motionless, his eyebrows twitching in contemplation. It felt like a lifetime had passed before he finally moved, his feet slowly shuffling backwards into the hall before he turned and briskly walked away. "Liam!"


	16. Chapter 16

CHAPTER 16

WPOV

It was the longest fucking taxi ride of my life. The cabbie deftly wove his way through the busy midday, downtown traffic as I sat fidgeting and helpless in the backseat. I kept my fists clenched in my lap while my foot impatiently pressed on an imaginary gas pedal on the floor. All the while, my mind raced with the implications of everything I had learned in the last half hour. Obviously the coat mix up hadn't happened at the Gala. Buffy must have given me Donald's coat this morning by mistake.

_Donald_. Donald, who had conveniently skipped out on our arrangements to meet with one excuse after another on why he couldn't make it. Donald who had a black eye from a supposed bar fight. Donald, who had told his sister Thursday morning, that he had broken several of his fingers playing rugby after school the previous evening. And most damning, Donald; who was left out of his father's will and wouldn't be inheriting a single nickel from the estate. My guess was that note belonged to him. He must have needed cash and gone to Mr. Maclay for help, who then refused him. It was the motive I had suspected earlier today, but certainly not from Mr. Maclay's own flesh and blood.

I knew the who, and I was pretty firm on the why, now for the how. I was aware of the potentially lethal properties of the toxic Foxglove flower. When I was a teenager, my mother, Sheila, had a little black poodle named Stella. She got into mom's flower garden once and ate some of the Foxglove roots she'd dug up. That was the last time Stella got in the garden. That was the last time Stella got into anything. Mom had the foxglove taken out the very same day. The incident made me curious so I studied up on it. If any part of the plant was infused in alcohol in the proper way, it could kill by inducing cardiac arrest.

Tare's going to be devastated.

My brow wrinkled in pain. How was I going to tell her that her brother, whom I knew was her closest and only remaining relative, was her father's murderer? My heart broke for her and I knew that this would be the hardest fucking day on the job I'd ever be forced to suffer through.

An eternity later, the cab pulled into the driveway of the Maclay estate, and I tossed a bill over the seat at the cabbie for the fare. I had the door to the cab open before he came to a stop and jumped out, running to the front door. I didn't bother with the bell. I flung the red front door open and saw Liam rushing down the stairs, sprinting by me through the open door. I was about to question him but the sound of Tara's distressed voice screaming for him stilled my words; my head shooting upwards to where the sound came from.

I turned and bolted swiftly up the stairs taking the steps two at a time, torn between staying calm for Tara's sake, or beating the crap out of Donald for the pain he was about to cause her when she learned the truth. Of course the latter wasn't a realistic option… only a desirable one. As I approached the halfway point, I heard the sliding of a chair across the wooden floor. Then the sound of a raised male voice.

I came to the second story landing. The door to the office was open, and through it I saw a man roughly pinning Tara to the settee as his hand snaked up her skirt. His face was tense with urgency as he hunched his body over hers; his left hand gripping Tara-Rose's shoulder tightly. The look on her face told me all I needed to know. Removing the colt from my holster, I aimed it at the man holding Tara; recognizing him as the slime-ball from the Gala.

"Reach for the sky!" I hollered from the doorway as I trained my gun on him, his movements freezing instantly. He looked at me shocked before releasing his grip from Tara, stepping back with his hand slightly raised. "Don't move a muscle," I warned as I turned my head to the right, shifting my gaze briefly from Tara-Rose's attacker to William Pratt who was standing impishly with a gun pressed to Donald's head.

"This isn't your business, Miss. Rosenberg," called out William tersely.

"Being on her payroll makes it my fucking business, Mr. Pratt," I growled, my gun still trained on his lackey. I was prepared to blow his head off if he so much as moved a finger.

"Suit yourself," William said, chuckling darkly. "It's your funeral."

He didn't have to say a word. His two crones instantly let go of Donald and reached for their weapons. I was heavily out gunned but I wasn't going to waver. I would gladly give up my life for this woman. I knew I could get off one shot, maybe two if I was lucky, but I'd be damned if Abrams made it out of here alive.

I contemplated my options. The first shot would be for Abram and if I was fast enough, I'd pivot to take out Pratt. I didn't like my odds but I knew this standoff wouldn't last forever, eventually bullets would start to fly. I gulped down the lump that formed at the back of my throat as my eye's sought out Tara's. I gave her a slight smile, the edges of my lips barely moving as I tried to convey through my eyes that everything would be okay.

"Enough stalling, Detective," William said as he rotated, his gun arm swinging to aim at the detective standing cattycorner to him. "Say goodbye to your girlfriend, Tara-Rose."

It felt like everything was taking place in slow motion as I watched him pull back on the trigger. I braced myself for the bullets impact as I squeezed the trigger of my revolver. As searing pain shot through my body, a fast spreading burn radiating throughout my arm into my chest, I watched as Abrams crumpled to the floor.

I was about to swivel, prepared to fill William full of lead, when I noticed two figures standing guard at the entrance of the study, weapons held firmly in their hands.

"Drop it!" Riley shouted as he pointed his military regulated pistol on the remaining thugs. "Or you'll come to a sticky end." Behind him, Liam stood with a tommy gun trained on the loan shark, prepared to pepper him and his cohorts with lead.

William scrunched his nose up in anger, his teeth clenched together as he stared down the two newcomers. He snarled his disappointment, less than pleased with his former colleague and groundskeeper. I watched in stoned silence as various emotions played across the deceitful man's face before he slowly tossed his weapon to the floor; his goon's quickly following suit.

My eyes flew to Tara, who was a trembling mixture of shocked anger and broken-hearted disappointment. Holstering my gun, I briskly walked to her, pulling her to me just as she started to lose it.

"It's okay, baby doll. I'm here and I won't let you go," I cooed softly, kissing her forehead as her body shook with retching sobs, tears flowing briskly from her eyes. I felt her hand reach for my arm, lightly tracing the seeping wound. Her body trembled even harder against mine as she reached into my pocket and pull out my handkerchief, quickly pressing it to my bicep where I'd been clipped.

I could hear people coming up the stairs; alerted by the sounds of shouting and gunfire. Buffy and Declan appeared at the doorway and their expressions turned to confusion at the sight of Liam and Riley holding several men at gunpoint; another man sprawled out deceased on the floor.

"Buffy, would you please call the police? I requested softly. Buffy nodded and quickly departed from the room with purpose. Declan moved toward the shylock and his henchmen; collecting their discarded weapons.

Between the remainder of the staff, I watched as they managed to get the three thugs up against the wall, their arms and legs spread to prevent any funny business. I told them sternly to place Donald up against the wall with the others as well. I felt the cloth of my suit growing damp with Tara's tears, but she hadn't made a peep yet. I pulled her closer to me, trying to press some of my strength into her. She just clutched me around my waist, and dabbed at my wound in fucking heartbreaking silence.

"Tara, I'm so sorry," Donald began softly from where he stood, his head hanging low.

"Donald, don't do this right now," she finally spoke through hitched sobs and pulled away from me to look at him. "I'm going to need a little time," she whispered as her eyes welled up with even more tears. "Willow, can you talk to the police please? If they need to talk to me, I'll be in my room," she said.

"Of course Tare," I replied. She gave me a relieved, albeit weak, smile and squared her shoulders for a brief second before she strode from the room. _So damn brave_.

The coppers showed up not long after. I informed them of what had transpired, indicating that Miss Tara-Rose and Mr. Donald were held hostage by William Pratt and his hoodlums. Through gritted teeth, I explained how and why the deceased man met his maker. The four were quickly cuffed and Donald, when questioned, was cooperative and explained how he was in severe debt and had prepared the foxglove seed and brandy cocktail for dear old dad. Within ten minutes, they had a full confession. I handed over the receipts to the cops and took off Donald's coat; I had still been wearing the most damning piece of evidence, since I'd rushed in here with such urgency.

Once Donald and the others were in-route to jail and the cops had cleared out of the house, I went to Tara's room. I expected to find her sprawled out on her bed, face down in the satin covered pillows, crying her little heart out. I should have known better.

She stood in front of her bedroom windows, gazing blankly out at the front lawn. "Tare, you alright?" I asked lamely, knowing that of course she wasn't anywhere close to being alright, but what else could I have said?

She kept her back to me, kept her gaze fixed on the grey February sky. "I'm all alone now," she whispered in a flat, emotionless, monotone voice that scared the hell out of me.

"You're not alone. I promised you, I won't let go," I soothed and moved toward her. I placed my right hand on her shoulder and started to draw her to me.

She flinched at my touch, her face contorting in fear as my hand glided over her shoulder blade. Shrugging away my hand she slipped away from my touch and went to the doorway of the bedroom. My eyebrows crinkled together at her.

"I suppose you would like your payment now, Willow?" she said and crossed the room to her vanity. I followed her and tried really fucking hard not to let her see how much her words and actions stung me.

_Just pick up the pieces of your heart and get the hell out Rosenberg. You always knew this is how it would end._

"Now or later. It doesn't matter," I said quietly and followed her to the desk where she pulled out Mr. Maclay's check register. She'd already paid me half my fee earlier this week. I watched her shaking hand scribble out a check for another quarter of my fee.

"I'll get you the rest in a few days, if that is agreeable?" she said more to herself than to me before continuing, "and the press is going to be hounding me when the news about Donald breaks. It might be better for me to stay out of the public eye for a little while," she said and looked at me blankly.

I examined her expression carefully. I knew her exquisite face well, and it dawned on me that her cold and distant manner was because she was in complete shock. She had just gone through something very traumatic; that being touched right now was unsettling. It certainly was understandable, after what she had just endured. I wanted to comfort her, I wanted to hold her and let her ruin my blood stained suit even further as she cried all over it. I wanted her. But she needed time.

If she said she needed time, then I would wait. I brought my hand to her face, cupping her cheek while I whispered in her other ear. "Sure, I'll see you in a few days, doll," and kissed her forehead before taking the check from her hand and leaving the room.

Buffy caught me at the door with my coat. I took it from her and she helped me shrug into it, my wounded arm to numb to bend properly. "Promise me, Buffy, that you'll keep an eye on Tara? That you'll let me know if she needs anything?" I requested anxiously.

"Of course, Miss Rosenberg, I'll call you first thing," she agreed solemnly.

"Thanks," I smiled gratefully, "and it's just Willow, Buffy, none of that Miss. Bullshit. I work for these people just like you do," I said and winked at her. She cracked a weak smile and offered to call me a cab. Soon enough, I was in the cab and pulling away from the Maclay estate. My chest grew heavy at the thought of going home to my cold, dingy apartment without knowing for sure if Tara was okay. Not knowing if I'd see her again. Not knowing when I'd see her blue eyes light up or smell her roses again.

_You're in for a few long fucking days, Rosenberg._


	17. Chapter 17

CHAPTER 17

TPOV

Twenty days.

It had been exactly Twenty days since everything had occurred at the estate.

Twenty days since my attempted rapist was killed.

Twenty days since William was arrested.

Twenty days since my brother had gone to jail for the murder of our father.

Twenty days since I settled my brother's debt with the mob.

Twenty days since I'd last seen Willow Rosenberg.

In the past twenty days, I had often questioned myself and my decision to hire Willow in the first place. I questioned whether the outcome would have played out differently. I questioned whether I would have been better off not knowing about my brother's plights. Instead of losing one member of my family, I had lost both.

_Was knowing what had happened worth it?_ It was, but sometimes I had a hard time convincing myself.

The Chrysler Imperial smoothly glided down the road with the windows rolled down, headed toward Harlem. Toward Willow. A warm breeze danced through the car, the smell of the exhaust from other cars wafted through. Unseasonably warm March days were rare in New York. However, Mother Nature graced us and people were taking full advantage of the beautiful weather. Laughter and happy shrieks from children on a nearby playground made me smile when we had stopped at a corner. The outside noise mingled with Fats Wallers rendition of "A Good Man Is Hard to Find," which played softly on the radio. Music was a welcome change from the constant news reports regarding my family and Le Beau. I sighed and took in everything. The warmer weather made me feel warmer inside as well. Almost as though I was thawing. It was a welcome change.

The newspapers and radio were flooded with the events regarding my father's death and Donald's involvement. Willow had been hailed a hero for taking on the notorious mobster William Pratt and saving my life. From what I could tell, she wasn't commenting to anyone regarding the case. With the negative press, the positive came as well. Le Beau sales hit an all-time high and we had been diligently working to push the newest ad campaign, "A Matter of Face." Work was keeping me busy and offered me a pleasant distraction from thinking about my family mess. _Not from her, though._

During this time, Alexander was able to contact William's boss Blue Lue Boyle through some mutual acquaintances and together we met him at Fuerst Bros Restaurant. I took Alexander up on his offer to join me during that meeting. The purpose was to give Mr. Boyle the money that Donald owed William. I was fairly certain that it wasn't Mr. Boyle who was looking for the money; if it were, he would have come collecting long before it could escalate to the degree it had. I asked him to make sure Donald's name was clear. He seemed to know a little more than he let on though, because he acted like he understood that it was a matter of life and death for Donald. He assured me that he wouldn't have Donald 'welshing' on a bet and no one would be coming for him in prison. While Alexander went to get the car, Mr. Boyle pinched my cheek and then my backside and told me to consider it done.

I'd gone to visit Donald soon after the police took him away from the estate and he had apologized once again to me. We met at the county jail and we sat together, in a cold room with hard chairs. He said he had never intended on hurting me the way that he did; that he hadn't been thinking clearly. I had told him that what hurt more than anything was that he felt there was no other option, no other way to deal with things than the way he did. I wished he had come and talked to me two months ago. We'd all be in quite a different position. His hands were joined together with the handcuffs yet when he reached out for mine, I could not deny him. Holding my hands in his, he begged for my forgiveness. Daddy had always told me it was important to forgive and forget. That's where he and I disagreed. I forgave Donald. I could not forget. I would not forget.

My thoughts shifted back to Willow as I took my compact out of my purse and looked at my face in the mirror, opting to leave the powder puff in its place. I had left Le Beau a bit early so I could make it to the bank to get the rest of her payment. With all of the media surrounding Daddy's death, Donald's arrest and William's involvement, I figured it was best to solely focus on work directly after everything had happened. I had requested Declan to place a call to Willow earlier this morning, telling her that I would be by today with the remainder of her money but she hadn't answered the phone. I was hoping that I would catch her. After all that happened at the estate, I knew I had been standoffish and cold to her the last time I saw her. Looking back at that day, I behaved appalling towards her. I never had the chance to apologize. Or to thank her for saving mine and Donald's life. We had left on a bad note and it was eating me alive.

I wondered if she would be happy to see me. I wondered if the spark would still be there. I wondered if she'd want what I wanted. I wonder if she wants me the way that I want her.

As he had done nearly three weeks ago, Alexander pulled the car to a stop in front of Willow's building. He moved to get out of the car, unbuckling his seatbelt. I looked at the rear view mirror that was on a stand, close to his head and saw him watching me. "Don't bother, Alexander. I'm fine and it's not necessary." He looked slightly concerned but didn't move from his spot in the front seat. Making a last minute decision, I continued, "Please feel free to head home. I'll call if I need you or I'll get a cab." He didn't turn in his seat but I could tell he was mulling it over, running his hand over the back of his neck as he often did while he thought.

He acquiesced, "I'll watch from here to make sure you get in safely. Don't hesitate to call if you need me."

"Thank you, Alexander. For everything." He had been my rock throughout the past few weeks. He, like the rest of the staff had taken care of me, lending an ear to bend or a shoulder to cry upon. Not coddling, as it wasn't in my nature to be babied, they would provide gentle reminders to eat more than a bite of toast; or sitting with me, not letting me wallow in my own self-pity. While I had been orphaned, I wasn't truly alone.

I was hoping that there was one more person willing to take me on, even after I had treated her so poorly twenty days ago.

I quickly hurried up the steps, running my hand along the railing as I did. From my vantage point on the steps, I could see the window to her apartment was open wide and I heard the radio announcer babbling away, more than likely about my family. Not wasting any time, I hurried into Willow's building, anxious to see her. I was there under the pretense of delivering the rest of her payment for her detective services, but I truly hoped this meeting would bring so much more.

Standing at her door, I hesitated slightly before announcing my arrival. My hands flitted to my hair and they smoothed it, patting at the barrel rolls I had painstakingly pinned in my hair that morning. I wanted to make sure everything was just so, despite her telling me that she liked my natural appearance. I had put on the single strand of white pearls that Daddy had given me for my sixteenth birthday and I gently ran a finger over them, thinking once more of my dear father. Taking a deep breath, I firmly knocked on the door.

"Door's open," I heard her grumble on the other side.

_Showtime, Tara-Rose_.

I had thought the same thing when we first met at the diner. Only I was quite aware that this wasn't a show. I was ready to put my feelings on the line and could only pray that I wouldn't get hurt once more. I wasn't used to feeling this vulnerable and I had already been hurt enough the last month.

I swung the door open slowly, my hand wrapped around the edge of the door. My eyes found her easily in the small room, sitting at her desk and glaring at the radio. I couldn't help but wonder what the radio had done to offend her. Her arm stopped mid-reach toward the Victrola as though she was about to turn it off before I had interrupted. Her eyes met mine. I was surprised to see the raw emotion they held, for in the past, she had always been so quick to keep up the wall between us. Quickly, they raked over my body and her outstretched hand retreated from the radio and raked through her unkempt hair. She had a paper open in front of her on the desk and I could see a copy of my face in black and white, peering up at her from the pages. The heavy bags under her eyes gave away the fact that she hadn't slept in a few days. An unlit cigarette rested behind her ear and there was an overflowing ashtray that rested next to the newspaper. The place was a bit of a mess. She was a bit of a mess.

Despite that, she looked beautiful to me.

"Tare," she breathed out. With that one word, I knew. Tare. She wants me as much as I want her. If she didn't she surely would have used Tara-Rose or Miss Maclay.

"Hello, Willow," I purred in greeting, unable to contain the smile that flitted across my lips. I remembered her comment at the Gala regarding my coat and moved to take off the swing coat that covered my wrap dress. Her eyes widened slightly and then narrowed; her jaw clenching. _The woman is a detective for Pete's sake; of course she knows exactly what I'm doing._

After depositing my coat on the screen over Donald's tuxedo, I stood in front of the door. I ran my hand along the wood of the door and quickly turned the lock behind my back. I shivered slightly, although it was not at all cold in her apartment. In fact, her gaze was hot and burning. I'm fairly certain I was returning a similar look.

"We never really got a chance to talk after the night of the Gala," I moved in front of her desk and rested my hands on top of it, leaning toward where she was sitting, giving her an unobstructed view down the front of my dress. I couldn't help but notice her eyes roam down toward the v-neck of my dress, briefly eyeing my cleavage before slowly trekking back up to my face.

"No, we didn't. You seemed a bit preoccupied the following morning; and then there was…" she trailed off, looking uncertain and not at all like herself. Her hand moved back and forth between us, "everything else. I thought you wanted to be left alone."

"I appreciate the sentiment but I've been alone for too long. I'm done pussyfooting-" The uncertain look was gone as I saw her smirk at my word choice. Moving to her side of the desk, I lightly slapped her arm, letting my hand rest on it, not wanting to stop touching her. "Ugh, one track mind, much!" I exclaimed, rolling my eyes. I amended my statement, "I'm done tiptoeing around this. I know the case is over, but I'm not ready to give you up. I was hoping that maybe…"

She leaned back on the rolling chair and pulled at the hand that had been on her arm and caught my waist with the other, pulling me so I sat sideways on her lap. She brought her mouth close to my ear, her warm breath sweeping around it, and answered with the words I was longing to hear her say once more, "I've already told you Tare, I'm not letting you go."

I let out the air I didn't realize I was holding and beamed at her. She continued to hold me on her lap, surrounding me with her arms. It felt like home.

"How's everything at the estate? Have they been taking care of you? Given you everything that you need?"

"Not everything…" I let the thought linger.

Looking at her desk, I saw the check I had written her three weeks prior, propped up under the lamp. Not moving from her lap, my free hand reached out and plucked it from the desk. It was then that I saw another check had been stacked behind it, which fluttered to the floor. It was the payment I had written to her months ago when she first took my case.

"You didn't cash them?" I asked, trying to sound stern yet failing as I leaned my head against her shoulder.

"No and I probably won't." She brought her hand to my hair and stroked it. My nose moved closer to her neck and I breathed in her scent.

I pressed the issue. "You should cash them. Deposit the payments. Something. I brought the rest with me, cash this time."

"Keep it," she said softly, her fingers gliding through strands of my hair.

"No, I don't think I can do that, Willow. You figured it out, solved the case. Even though it wasn't something I wanted to hear, it was something that I needed to hear."

The hand that was stroking my hair moved down my arm and around my side. She held me tighter. I no longer wanted to talk about the money or the case.

"I missed you, Willow," I whispered, effectively changing the subject and getting to the true reason why I was there with her. I knew it was blunt but I was done being coy. Done playing the games. I needed her to know.

"It was getting harder to stay away," she admitted as she brushed her nose against my throat.

I started to say something but her lips caught mine and I forgot about talking, pressing my lips to hers. She pulled back just slightly and I felt her lips smiling against mine.

_She wants me._

And I needed to have her.

_Now._


	18. Chapter 18

DISCLAIMER: This is the final chapter and is rated NC17

CHAPTER 18

WPOV

It had been twenty days.

Twenty fucking excruciatingly long days.

I wasn't counting, I didn't need to. That bastard reporter on the radio, Daniel Osbourne, made a point of keeping track of it for me, just like he was doing right now as he described where she had gone for lunch today and what time she'd left her office downtown. I could have turned off the Victrola, but that was like convincing a raging alcoholic to dump his 100 year old scotch down the drain. To make matters worse, the New York Times had her picture plastered all over the front page for the last fifteen days, using her beauty to sell papers, and break my fucking heart some more.

Twenty days had forced me to face facts, and the fact was; I had it bad. Worse than I'd ever thought was possible, and way fucking worse than I ever wanted to admit.

There were other reminders of her lying around my apartment too. Donald's freshly dry cleaned tux hung from the silk screen, a black and white memento of the Gala, and the dancing … and how she'd had her complete fucking way with me. Two checks for my detective services sat propped up against the base of the lamp on my desk, her handwriting staring at me. I just couldn't bring myself to cash them. I almost wished she hadn't hired me at all. Maybe not knowing the truth would have been better for her, and not meeting her at all might have been better for me.

Maybe you should cash 'em, Rosenberg. Move to Chicago like you wanted. Get the hell out of New York City.

I sat at my desk in my black slacks and button down, my white shirt open and un-tucked with the sleeves rolled up, and put out the cigarette I'd forgotten I was smoking. The late afternoon sunlight filtered through the half open blinds, slicing the smoke from my cigarette into slowly swirling patterns. Today's edition of the Times was lying before me and her eyes, so dull and lifeless in grey newsprint, bore into mine. Daniel finally gave it a rest and played some music but I groaned when I recognized the song, "Honeysuckle Rose." That damn song may as well have been written for Tare; and it certainly wouldn't help me stop thinking about her. Just as I was about to stand and turn off the radio, I heard a firm knock at the door.

"Door's open," I called out gruffly, and the door slowly swung into the room, led by a little hand with fuck-me-red fingernails.

And there she was.

_My proverbial rose. Tara-Rose herself_.

"Hello, Willow," she murmured as she let herself in, took off her coat and locked the door behind her. She was wearing another one of her flirty fucking dresses, seductively black and tight with little gathers and buttons along the hip. A low cut v-neck revealed her creamy neck and chest, perfectly offset by a strand of shimmering white pearls encircling her throat. My eyes narrowed. Too powerful for her own good.

"We never really got a chance to talk after the night of the Gala," she said.

"No, we didn't. You seemed a bit preoccupied the following morning, and then there was…" I trailed off, waving my hand between us awkwardly, "everything else. I thought you wanted to be left alone."

"I appreciate the sentiment but I've been alone for too long. I'm done pussyfooting-" I smirked uncontrollably at hearing the word pussy cross her perfect lips. She slapped me playfully, chiding me softly, before continuing. "… I'm done tiptoeing around this. I know the case is over, but I'm not ready to give you up. I was hoping that maybe…"

My anxiety over the last twenty days evaporated as she smiled timidly at me. You can bet your ass I was scared, but I'd already risked it all and it was too late to go back. I reached up and caught the hand that had just slapped my shoulder, ignoring the slight sting emanating from my healing wound, and leaned back in my chair, pulling her down onto my lap.

"I already told you Tare, I'm not letting you go," I murmured near her ear and her face lit up with a relieved smile. "How's everything at the estate? Have they been taking care of you? Given you everything that you need?" I asked.

"Not everything…." She replied, and it was my turn to smile like a moron. She looked over my desk and saw her un-cashed checks and snatched one up, the other falling from the desk to the floor.

"You didn't cash them?" she asked and rested her head on my shoulder. Her rose perfume enveloped me; I'd missed that so fucking much.

"No and I probably won't," I said honestly and played with her hair.

"You should cash them. Deposit the payments. Something. I brought the rest with me, cash this time."

"Keep it."

"No, I don't think I can do that, Willow. You figured it out, solved the case. Even though it wasn't something I wanted to hear, it was something that I needed to hear," she insisted, which I ignored while I pulled her closer.

"I missed you, Willow," she confessed in a whisper a moment later. Her words, simply as they were, sent my heart a flutter.

"It was getting harder to stay away," I confessed in return and brought my nose against her throat to breathe in her perfume then moved my mouth to hers, kissing her softly. I felt her soften against me and I smiled, thrilled that I had that effect on her. She ran her hand through my hair and plucked out the cigarette I'd forgotten I had placed behind my ear, tossing it on the desk. The radio changed songs, and my favorite Jimmie Davis ballad, "You Are My Sunshine," filled the apartment. The song's blue, longing melancholy amplified our own want, if that was fucking possible. I stopped kissing her and whispered against her lips, "Dance with me, Tara?"

She didn't speak, she just nodded her forehead against mine; her eyes still shut from the kiss. She took a deep breath and stood, trailing her hand from my right shoulder, down my arm and to my hand. I caught her hand and stood, then brought her hand to my lips, kissing the top of it softly. She smiled over her shoulder, her eyes downcast as she turned to face me. Her gaze floated slowly up my frame, lingering for a moment on my jaw before her hooded eyes met mine.

_The feeling's mutual, Tare._

I stepped into her, drawing her to me and resting my cheek against hers as I started to slowly sway us in rhythm with the music. Her rose perfume permeated the air, and I drank her in like the fucking raging alcoholic with his coveted scotch.

_So much better than bourbon_.

We held on to each other tightly as we slowly danced around my tiny one room apartment, and she seemed to melt into me as much as I lost myself in her. "Mmmm, Willow," I heard her whisper into my ear. I pulled my face away to look at her. I brought her to a stop and plucked my handkerchief from my pocket. Carefully, gently, I wiped all her red lipstick away. When I could see the pure pink of her soft lips, I tossed the handkerchief on the desk.

_There's MY Tara._

I took her face in both my hands, my fingertips dancing across her delicate cheekbones as if they were made of the finest porcelain, and brought my mouth to hers. Her lips molded themselves to mine in absolute breathless fucking perfection, and I kissed them both, tracing the outline of each with the tip of my tongue. Her head tilted back more, her body softening in my hands. I kept one hand on her cheek, the other I slid down her neck, across her chest down to her waist and then around, pulling her as close to me as possible. I brought my cheek back to hers and resumed the dance steps.

"Willow, how is this going to work? I don't know how much of myself I can give you right now," she said with quiet regret.

"I don't know how much I can give you either, Tare. What do you say we just see how it all plays out?" I said and squeezed her to me, not willing to think about the fucking future just then.

"Willow…I-" she began but I cut her short.

"Why don't we stop talking, Tara-Rose?" I asked, throwing her words from the night of the Gala back at her. She smirked and began to argue but I silenced her with a finger on her lips. "Still so fucking demanding." I said teasingly. Her eyes flashed but I didn't give her a chance to say anymore. I hardly gave her a chance to take a breath as I attempted to kiss all coherent thoughts straight out of her pretty little head.

She didn't argue with me anymore as her hands moved to my hair and pulled. Goddamn I loved that. We kept swaying, but no longer in time with the music; no longer able to pay attention to anything beyond each other. I kissed her slowly, reverently, as I spun her around a few times and led her back to the desk. I leaned back against it, then brought my right hand up and ran it up the back of her neck and through her hair. My left hand reached for her right knee and the hem of her dress. I fondled the fabric teasingly before hitching the hem up, and brought her right knee up to rest on top of the desk. I felt her heat radiating off of her, lapping teasingly at me as she ground her hips against me.

My knees went fucking weak. I trailed my hand from her hip, slowly down her thigh, stopping briefly to playfully snap the elastic strap of her garter, down over her stocking covered knee and ankle. My hand came to rest on the heel of her shoe, encircling it with my thumb and finger. I smiled against her lips and gave her heel a swift jerk, forcing her pelvis closer to my overheating, wanton core. She hissed in shocked pleasure, evidenced by the sinful smirk that danced across her lips as her head fell slowly back. I released her shoe and she slowly slid her foot back to the floor, shifting her position so that her legs were between my spread ones; her hips brushing against the inside of my thighs. Her hands slid with assured purpose to my waist and the bright silver buckle of my belt. She kissed me deeply, her tongue tickling the roof of my mouth before catching my lower lip in her teeth and grazing it carefully as she pulled away.

_That's my little vixen._

Her fingers worked furiously to unfasten my belt buckle. With a tug, she cinched it together, giving her enough slack to unlatch the buckle. She pulled the belt from its confining loops slowly, and once freed, swung it around my back, catching it in her other hand and pulling me to her with a fierce jerk. Her eyes went to my jaw that clenched as I grunted, and she bit her lip in delicious anticipation.

She dropped the belt onto the desk with a thud.

She unbuttoned my pants.

She slid down my zipper.

She pulled up my rolling chair and made herself perfectly fucking comfortable before pulling my pants off my hips. Her eager hand found the opening of my boxers and I growled when I felt her hot little fingers palm my mound, before pulling them down and freeing me from the confining cotton.

Then she did something I didn't really expect her to do, but had been secretly fucking wanting her to. She tentatively sneaked her tongue out between her lips, touching the tip to my throbbing clitoris before plunging lower.

"Fuck Tara-Rose…" I watched her greedily, while my brow furrowed in tortured expectation.

My fingers dug into the wooden edge of my desk, and on the next pass up, she dragged her teeth gently across my clit.

"Tara…." I murmured again, my desire to have her growing uncontrollably by the second, egged on by each torturous, quickening pass of her mouth. Back and forth, with the tongue maneuvers and the suction and the fucking teeth. After a few passes she started moaning softly, making me vibrate in her mouth, and that was fucking it. My eyes rolled back as tremors racked my body; my mind consumed by the singular thought of having her. RIGHT. FUCKING. NOW.

I pulled her up off of me and on to her feet as I kissed her so hard I felt her knees give out on her. I crushed her to me, wrapping both my arms around her waist while her arms snaked around my neck. I lifted her off the floor and walked us to the wall next to where the Murphy bed was hidden. I gently pushed her into the wall, using her to release the latch that held the bed in place, and then spun us around once to make way for the bed which fell gently to the floor. As I pressed her into the wall I began on the buttons that held her dress to her perfect, trembling body. I stared into her sapphire eyes and with one hand, unfastened each of the buttons on her hips, then began unfastening the ones at her shoulder. The other hand moved to her cheek then through her silky golden curls. She brought one finger to my throbbing jugular and traced it slowly from the bottom of my ear to my _clavicle_. I kissed her again as I slid her dress off her shoulders and to the floor. She stepped out of it and kicked it behind her with a sexy flick of her high heeled foot.

Once again, she took my fucking breath away. She stood before me, her white pearls shimmering in the light of the setting sun, her perfect tits crammed gloriously into a black lace bustier. Her panties matched the bustier, and of course she had a black lace garter belt, holding up my favorite, black Cuban heeled stockings with the seam all the way up the back, which were very hard to come by right now. I began to wonder if she'd ever not take my breath away and immediately realized the idiocy of such a stupid fucking question.

_Of course she'd always have that effect on me, she's Tara._

"So beautiful," I whispered against her lips, cupping her face in my hands before releasing her to turn her back to me. I let my fingers dance along her back before unfastening all the little hooks of her bustier. I pulled it away from her, freeing her perfect breasts, and dropped it to the floor. She brought her hands over her head and up the back of my neck, tangling her fingers in my hair. My hands moved down, over the high curve of her ass, and unsnapped the two garter straps in the back, before reaching around and unsnapping the two in the front. I buried my mouth in her neck, nibbling softly as I trailed my hands from her inner thighs slowly up and lightly over her clit through the silk of her panties. She shivered in response and hissed as I unfastened the hooks that held the garter belt around her waist. The garter belt fell away from her, and my eager hands slipped up the front of her torso to cup her full, perfectly round tits and roll her nipples between my fingers. She whimpered and ground her backside into me, back and forth, in impatient little arcs.

Moving my hands up to her shoulders, I turned her around so that she was facing me. For a minute, I got lost in the trust and want I saw in her gaze and it went straight to my fucking gut. She slid her hands under my shirt and slipped it off my arms. At the sight of my gunshot wound, she gently fingered the nearly healed hole, a crestfallen expression taking over her features. I smile at her reassuringly, telling her softly that I was okay. She shifted her gaze away from my arm to my eyes, her own beseeching for me to reassure her that I wasn't lying. Leaning forward, I gently capture her lips, projecting through the kiss that I wasn't hurt. Pulling out of the kiss, she plucked the hem of my undershirt and I raised my arms for her as she pulled it up and over my head.

I coaxed her onto the bed, and she reclined back willingly, expectantly, as I climbed in beside her and propped myself up on my left elbow. I leaned over her and devoured her mouth some more, worshiping her with my tongue, exploring her exquisite body with my hand. My right hand moved down her side in random little patterns and then grazed her hip, which made her shiver adorably, before reaching down and pulling her stocking down to her ankle. On the way back up, my hand caught her other ankle, still encased in silk. I lazily dragged my fingertips up the inside of her calf and knee, teasing her as they memorized the curve of her inner thigh. My slender fingers traced the silky hem of the stocking before pulling it down to match its counterpart. All that remained were her black lace panties and stilettos.

My hand went to her face, my fingertips caressing her cheek adoringly. Her little hands pulled my face closer to her, demanding my fucking everything, and I was all too willing to give it to her. My right hand wandered down her, over her luscious tits and sculpted stomach to play with the lacy elastic of her panties. She lifted her hips off the bed just enough for me to slowly pull them down and off of her magnificent body.

Finally, there were no more barriers, no more masks, no more pretenses, and no more fucking questions between us.

I sat up to kneel before her. She spread her legs, resting her heel clad foot on each side of my hips as her tongue darted out and licked her lips in anticipation. I lowered myself to her and plunged my nose into her neck again, drowning myself in her roses in the same instant that I plunged two fingers into her. She gasped as her arms wrapped around me and I could feel her fuck-me-red fingernails digging into my back. I buried myself deeper in her, spent a moment relishing her seemingly endless depth. She felt so fucking perfect, molded to me, tailored to me, destined for me.

I withdrew my fingers slowly, holding myself above her on a bent elbow, my mouth insistent upon hers, before taking her again. She turned her head away to gasp "Willooooow," and her hands fell to the bed where they clutched desperately at the pale blue cotton sheet. I ran my nose along her neck, over the creamy white pearls of the necklace she still wore, and set a pace with my hips that had my Tare wiggling in tortured ecstasy beneath me in mere moments.

_So fucking beautiful._

I couldn't stop watching her, I couldn't tear my eyes away from her flushed face, dewy with sweat and smiling in rapture. My pace against her thigh quickened as I thrusted my hand into her faster, my own need fed by her enjoyment of what I was doing to her. She surprised me then, her left hand reaching down to play with my vagina before entering me swiftly with two slender fingers.

"Mmmmm, baby doll," I whispered huskily into her ear, relishing the feel of her inside of me. She wrapped her left leg around my waist, the heel of her shoe digging into my lower back, and both of us hissed in pleasurable pain at the sensation her shift inspired. I brought my forehead to hers, and my trusts grew more impatient against her hand, more demanding as I tried to pull her in deeper. I could tell she was close.

_Not going too slow now am I, doll?_

I plunged into her faster, my pelvis bone hitting hers, she arched her back and I snaked my arm under her. I pulled her hips to me on my next thrust. I felt her clench around me as she cried out a low, sexy, "fuuuuck" while her nails raked painfully across my back before moving up to my head and grabbing a fistful of my damp hair; pulling tightly and pushing me over the edge a second after her. I tried to bury myself as deeply in her as possible while I pressed my trembling lips to her mouth, and poured my everything into her.

I collapsed on top of her, spent and disgustingly sweaty. She sighed contentedly, a pleased, satisfied little smile on her face that I couldn't wait to inspire more often, and I counted myself the luckiest son of a bitch in New York City.

I started to push off the bed to reluctantly pull myself off of her. Her leg was still wrapped around me and she used it to squeeze me tighter to her body. "No, stay a moment … please?" she said and lifted her head to plant a kiss on my heart. I put my elbow next to her head and lowered myself back down. We kissed languidly for a few minutes and the scent of roses and cigarettes and sex was thick in the air. The light had started to fade, it was almost twilight now, and instead of the sunlight filtering through the blinds in soft orange slits, now the pale, rising moon bathed the room in a dreamy blue. My Tara looked gorgeous in the moonlight, the shimmering opalescence of her pearl necklace, the only thing she still wore along with the heels, perfectly complimenting the luminosity of her flawless face. I kissed the tip of her nose, and then reluctantly pulled off of her to stand; she let me go this time.

Standing at the base of the bed, I leaned over, lightly grabbing her ankle and gliding a single finger over the smooth texture of her high heels. With a smirk, I recalled what those heels had just done and was fairly certain I had a crescent moon shaped bruise forming on my lower back. Flicking the delicate buckle, I loosened the strap fastening the heel to her foot and gently tugged it off followed by her stocking, carelessly dropping them to the floor as I grabbed her other foot, mimicking the action over again.

Once deprived of her shoes, I walked over to my desk, picking up my pack of Lucky's, my lighter and the ashtray before walking back toward my lover. I got back in bed next to Tara and lit up a smoke. She took it from my lips and puffed away a couple of times before handling it back to me. She rested her head on my shoulder, watching my glistening chest move as I inhaled.

"I'm hungry," she said as she drew lazy circles on the flesh between my breasts.

"Sex does that to you," I acknowledged sarcastically and winked at her.

She slapped my shoulder again, "Willow, seriously," she scolded.

"Well what do you want?" I asked.

"What do you like to eat?" she asked, her eyes sparkling with interest.

I cast a leisurely glance down her body, taking in the soft tuff of blonde curls at the apex of her pelvis, one single thought running through my mind of what I'd like to eat. She must have sensed my wayward thoughts as she nudged my ribs playfully. _One track mind is right_. "Chinese is my favorite," I admitted and watched with amusement when her face wrinkled in a worried frown.

"I don't have much experience with Chinese food … can I share whatever you get?" she asked.

I pulled her face to mine and kissed her like the angel she was. I took a deep breath, breathing in my Tara, and whispered against her lips, "Sure baby doll, what's mine is yours."

THE END


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